The Irish Lottery Series Box Set (1-3)

by Gerald Hansen

  “I was collecting rubbish from the pavements to make the town nice,” Padraig sniveled on the screen, “and I was placing some empty crisp bags in me auntie’s wheelie bin when she burst out of her house screaming the odds. She said the likes of me had no business in her part of town, the posh part of town, now that she had won the lotto she hated me and I was a mingin stoke. She throttled me neck, then looked up and down the street until she saw a motor racing towards us, and she waited until it was inches away, then threw me into it. Me body fairly flipped over the hood of the car, and me shoulder cracked against the bumper and me head landed on the blacktop. Blood spurt everywhere. Heart- feared, so I was. I hauled meself up and limped all the way back to the Moorside.”

  The magistrates shifted in their robes and regarded Ursula with distaste. Fionnuala was proud, knowing she had raised Padraig right: how crocodile tears could stream down his wee face with such conviction!

  “Mrs. Barnett has told me,” Ms. Murphy’s disembodied voice, apologetic and somewhat embarrassed, now said on the screen, “you were lighting, erm, petrol bombs to set her house ablaze?”

  Padraig’s eyes widened with hurt, then he winced and brought a tender hand to the bandage around his head. Brilliant, so his act was, Fionnuala thought, pondering how she could ship him off to Hollywood and reap the rewards.

  “Naw! I never!” he said, his pout indignant.

  “Could you please explain to the court why your aunt would say this?”

  “Cause she’s a mad aul cow, hi!”

  This seemed to satisfy the defense, and the cross-examination was at an end.

  As the telly was snapped off and a pensioner struggled to make her way to the stand, Siofra sat in her usual fidgety, brattish strop. While it had been a right laugh watching her auntie Ursula squirming on the stand and her brother lying through his teeth on the telly, now her bag of Jelly Babies was close to empty, and she found herself thinking only of her new outfit, and imagining the scene when it would be delivered to her house with much fanfare.

  Mrs. Feeney raised her hand and righteously confirmed she would tell the truth, so help her God.

  “Would you please tell the court what transpired the afternoon of May 23rd of this year?”

  “I was motoring down the street,” Mrs. Feeney said, “when I looked out me window and saw that flippin eejit of a woman roaring outta her like a mad beast and grappling that wee fella by the neck. The pure rage in Ursula put the fear of God into me. I saw her point at me car, and I saw the gleam in her eye. She bided her time until I was driving by, then she took careful aim and shoved the wee fella into me hood.”

  Siofra amused herself by clicking open her handbag and pawing through its sticky depths.

  “I enter into evidence, my lords, the following photographs of the extensive damage Padraig Flood’s innocent young body made to Mrs. Feeney’s car.”

  “And mind,” Mrs. Feeney said, “ye enter into evidence me bills and all. I'm expecting compensation from that wan.”

  As Ms. Murphy approached Mrs. Feeney, the door opened, and Molly from Xpressions slipped into the courtroom. Ursula’s heart lurched with joy, her faith in humanity restored. Molly would be a character witness for her after all! Molly settled herself in the front row of the public gallery, hand prim on a knee, eyes firmly turned from Ursula.

  Ms. Murphy addressed the witness for the prosecution.

  “Mrs. Feeney, did you not see this young man with a petrol bomb in his hand, and with three other such malicious weapons lining the pavement, ready for action?”

  “Are ye fat in the forehead? Themmuns is desperate lies dreamed up by that aul cunt of a bitch! Padraig Flood’s never touched a petrol bomb in his life! A wee dote, so he is. Always helps me carry me messages to me house.”

  The magistrates looked surprised.

  “Is the court expected to believe that the story of this petrol bomb attack is the work of a delusional mind?” one of them intervened.

  “I wouldn’t put it past the sleekit aul minger,” crabbit Mrs. Feeney harrumphed.

  “But Mrs. Barnett is,” Ms. Murphy continued, “an upstanding member of the community. Can you explain why she would behave in such a manner?”

  “That Ursula Barnett’s always had it out for me!” Mrs. Feeney lied through her dentures. “She was meant to be me provider for OsteoCare; that one provided me with nothing but bleedin misery. I'm reduced to a bundle of nerves, ingesting tablets to calm me nerves and help me through the nightmares, after being forced to be the instrument of her hatred. And she always told me she couldn’t abide that Padraig, couldn’t stomach the sight of him.”

  “I put it to you, Mrs. Feeney, that you are lying,” Ms. Murphy intoned.

  “Say what ye like. I want that one to pay for me hood, but!”

  She teetered off the stand with a smirk at Ursula.

  “I now call Mrs. Fionnuala Flood,” Miss O’Donnell said, to Ursula’s great dread.

  The air crackled with anticipation, the Floods beaming proudly, a deathly hush descending as Fionnuala commanded her place in the witness box, her face radiant with conviction, tissue at the ready.

  £ £ £ £

  “Are ye not due in court at some stage the day?” Bridie asked, a dripping chip basket swinging from her hand.

  The Top-Yer-Trolly meat and cheese counter had never seemed so good. Dymphna had worked seven shifts at the ChipKebab and had already received two verbal warnings. She couldn’t help it: the hordes of customers heaving though the doors were legless and stroppy and endless, and the one thing she couldn’t abide at her register was rudeness. Her eyes were vacant of joy at the sight of the little brown camels which festooned her fat-splattered smock in vertical stripes, the daft cap she had to place on her head, and her stomach turned at the stench of the curry sauce.

  “Yer man won’t let me go until after the dinner break,” Dymphna said, shooting the manager a foul look. She measured out some chips and dreamed of her next fag break, the likes of which were doled out with the precision of a Nazi work camp. “He’s making me work a double the tomorrow to cover the time off. It’s to be a quare aul craic, but, watching that hateful bitch Ursula squirming away in the dock. If only I can make it there on time.”

  “Ye’ll be there soon enough, then,” Bridie said with a nod at the door. “Dinner break rush is on its way now.”

  Dymphna turned and glared under her hairnet like the wage slave she was at the clamoring at her register.

  “What do ye want?” she snapped at the first one fool enough to have chosen her.

  There followed a flurry of lurching to the sandwich bin, snapping open bags, snatching pound coins and shoving them inside her register drawer. The chaos was just dwindling down, and Dymphna was by then panting for a fag, when who did she see next in her queue but Mr.

  O’Toole, with Fidelma clutching his arm in a manner not befitting an employee. The three shot daggers at each other over the garlic sauces as if they had all been slapped. The bag of ground glass was heavy in the pocket of Dymphna’s camel and pyramid smock.

  Dymphna’s head swiveled to ensure the manager wasn’t in sight, then she bent over the register keys and hissed: “Get that sleekit minger away from me till before me fist lands in her gob.”

  Fidelma whispered into Mr. O’Toole’s ear, shot Dymphna a foul look, then dismissed herself to a table cluttered with the remnants of past diners, where she perched herself as if she were guest of honor at a banquet. If Dymphna had ever had any doubts about causing O’Toole harm, seeing him stepping out with Fidelma filled with a steely resolve. Didn’t people realize they brought their troubles on themselves? She wondered. Aloud, she demanded, “What’s yer order?”

  “Give us a TakkoKebab, a ChipButtyKebab, Crispy TofuDippers—”

  “Sauce?”

  “Garlic. Curry chips twice and two small orange minerals.”

  Dymphna punched in the order in a surprisingly jealous strop; Mr. O’Toole had never taken her out for a
meal. As he cooed over at Fidelma, Dymphna turned to the bin and selected a TakkoKebab with trembling fingers. Shuffling over to the deep fat fryer, she discreetly slipped the foil wrapper off and peered inside at the bubbling mince meat, wilting lettuce and onion, the stray tomato and some minging spicy sauces. Her hand slipped into the pocket of her smock and, head swiveling, she tugged out the polythene bag. As the grease splattered around her, she sprinkled the ground glass into the halves of pita bread, massaged them gently so the particles trickled unseen into the steaming depths, then tightly rewrapped the foil. She considered adding some glass to Fidelma’s ChipButtyKebab as well, just for taking up with the old pansy, but realized that Fidelma’s face was punishment enough in her life.

  Dymphna marched back to the register, a woman empowered, and shoved the lot onto a tray.

  “Seven quid fifty-nine pee,” she said brightly, forcing the tray across the counter.

  “Good luck to ye,” he said curtly as he collected the change.

  “Ta, to you and all,” Dymphna sneered, slamming the money drawer shut. “Now clear on off outta me sight and leave me head’s peace.”

  He settled himself at the table, muttered something to Fidelma, and they both peered over at her and snickered. A rush of anticipation swept under Dymphna’s greasy smock, revenge a dish best served in a steaming hot TakkoKebab.

  As she made a show of busying herself over the next order, a new dance in her fingers, she shot glances at the two. Their hands met under the table, the toes of Fidelma’s trainers fiddling with O’Toole’s Oxfords through the sea of straw wrappers and dropped TofuDippers.

  The sick almost shot from Dymphna’s throat at Fidelma’s giggling and cooing, one hand poised coyly under her chin, the pinkie raised, leering under her eyelashes across the table and allowing O’Toole to slip a chip dripping curry sauce into her mouth.

  Mr. O’Toole whipped open a napkin and unfolded it carefully across the tightness of his lap. He aligned the straw to a 90 degree angle from his mouth, ranked his plastic fork and knife on a napkin and daintily unwrapped the deathly TakkoKebab, adjusting the foil just so, forming a perfect square plate of aluminum around the kebab. Dymphna shuddered as she stacked the minerals cup lids. Perhaps if Mr. O’Toole had married her, she would’ve been driven to an early grave.

  He unwrapped his TakkoKebab and brought it up to his lips. Dymphna tensed, ripping a napkin into tiny shreds. Panic took her unawares, a cell in Magilligan in her near future. Then he lowered the pita bread from his mouth and spewed out more nonsense.

  Their conversation was endless, so it was, Dymphna thought. What in the name of feck did they have to discuss, the new shipment of prawn cheese spread?

  “Right, there, love? One BaconNCheeseDippers—”

  Dymphna scowled into the eager face of a pensioner.

  “Get yerself off to another till! Can ye not see I'm busy?!”

  “Useless, more like,” the pensioner muttered, stomping over to Bridie.

  Dymphna fiddled with her register roll as if it were wonky, her eyes trailing her victim. Mr. O’Toole put the TakkoKebab inches from his relentlessly babbling mouth, then placed it back down again, not a bite taken.

  “Get it down yer effin bake, ye hateful aul nancy boy!” she muttered into the concentric circles of the register roll.

  She slipped out her mobile and glanced at the time. She was sure to miss her auntie’s crucifixion at this rate. O’Toole nibbled on a TofuDipper, all the while talking a mile a minute, Fidelma’s ears enraptured. Would he never get that damn thing between his teeth and finally give her head’s peace? Dymphna wondered. Resisting the urge to march over and shove the TakkoKebab down his gullet herself, Dymphna snapped the roll dispenser shut and waited.

  £ £ £ £

  Fionnuala sniffled into a tissue for a few seconds, blinked bravely, and addressed the court in a reedy voice.

  “I had just finished praying the teatime Angelus, yer honors, and was out hanging the washing on the line when I heard the clatter of wer front door, and the grievous roars of me wane in pain. Me heart was gripped with fear. I saw blood trailing all over the scullery linoleum. Stains, mind, that we kyanny remove no matter how hard we scrub. We’re expecting compensation for some new linoleum and all. Anyroad, we rushed the poor wee nadger up to Altnagelvin, where they told us his skull was fractured, his ribs was bruised, and he was clinging to life by a thread.”

  “I enter into evidence, my lords, the hospital records and X-rays of the extensive damage done to the young victim,” Miss O’Donnell said.

  Ursula craned her neck to catch a glimpse of the X-rays, confusion vying with alarm on her face. The magistrates pawed them over, clucking and shaking their heads as they inspected the damning evidence, casting daggers over at Ursula.

  “Why would she do this?” Miss O’Donnell barreled on. “What can you tell us about your family’s relationship with the defendant?”

  “A misery, it’s been, since that lotto win. We was in need of fifty quid to pay off the rates. Pure desperate, we was. Down on me knees in the middle of the Saturday shoppers on Shipquay Street I was one day, begging Ursula Barnett for a loan of the money. She fairly spat in me face. And then there was the carer’s allowance for me poor aul mother-in-law, Eda Flood.”

  Eoin had been propping up his dozing granny, and he now nudged her at the mention of her name. Eda didn’t budge. Eoin went back to jittering with post-E panic, sitting ringside at his aunt’s crucifixion doing him no favors.

  “Years, we’ve taken care of the frail aul pensioner, then Ursula steals the allowance from us. Shameless, so she is!”

  Before coming to court, Eoin had taken a quick trip to the Craglooner, but he couldn’t give his wingers away. Heads had whipped around, chatter faltering, eyes inspecting beermats. One week earlier his mobile had never stopped ringing, and 5 Murphy had been a revolving door of junkies.

  At the stand, Ms. Murphy approached Fionnuala.

  “Did Mrs. Barnett not pay off your mortgage for you after the lotto win?” Ms. Murphy asked.

  “Aye,” Fionnuala spat, wrapping her arms around herself.

  Not the brightest bulb, Eoin couldn’t understand what was up. That rumors were flowing about him grassing for the RUC never entered his mind. All he knew was that he was in desperate need of new clientele. He glanced over at Siofra, who had Pikachu wrapped up in a soiled handkerchief she had stolen from Paddy’s pocket, and was marching him up and down her dozing granny’s thigh.

  “Was that not extremely magnanimous of her?” Ms. Murphy asked.

  Confusion flickered on Fionnuala’s face.

  “If ye mean was that wile civil of her, naw!” she snarled. “Swanned into wer sitting room the moment the deal was done, barking out orders for me to change me drapes and the flimmin wallpaper! Just so’s she could sell it for more money, like, and put us out on the street! She’s turned us into squatters in wer own home! We live in mortal fear of hearing them hammering the For Sale sign into wer front garden, scoffing down wer baked beans under a cloud of guilt!”

  Siofra shoved her last Jelly Baby against Pikachu’s painted mouth.

  “Body of Christ, Body of Christ...” she whispered into Pikachu’s ear. A slow smile now began to play on Eoin’s lips, and connivance glinted fleetingly in his vein-speckled eyes. He now realized who his new clientele would be. The younger they got hooked, the better, he thought.

  “Why did you not contact the authorities when you were in hospital?” Ms. Murphy asked.

  “Ach, we’re Catholic, so we are!” Fionnuala spat.

  The magistrates nodded in understanding.

  “And you did not smell petrol on Padraig when you were rushing him to the hospital?”

  “Grieving, we were. We hadn’t the time nor the presence of mind to go sniffing around his hoodie and trainers! Them petrol bombs is a pack of lies, anyroad! Ye can scour them hospital records until the cows come home, and ye’ll not find a mention of flimmin effin petrol in any
of em.”

  Fionnuala turned and addressed the magistrates, her voice ringing with conviction.

  “Yer honors, Ursula Barnett is a sleekit, conniving bitch who hates her life and is taking out her hatred on all of us. I kyanny wait to see that one sent down for the misery she’s put wer family through!”

  “That’s quite enough, Mrs. Flood,” Ms. Murphy said sternly. “One could say, actually, that your only reason for bringing this case against my client was to receive the compensation money.”

  “Ach, we’ve no need of the money. We’ve stacks of wanes working all the hours God sends to pay off wer bills, sure!”

  “I put it to you, Mrs. Flood, that everything you have said under oath has been a lie.”

  “Aye, you would and all!” Fionnuala snapped her arms around her and glared with eyes that insinuated Ms. Murphy was a Proddy cunt she would be happy to kneecap. “Ye kyanny prove me wrong, but.”

  “I am through with this witness,” Ms. Murphy, at a loss, said.

  Fionnuala triumphantly dismounted the stand.

  “My last witness, your honors,” Miss O’Donnell said, “is Molly Harris.”

  Ursula’s brow rimpled with bewilderment. Surely Molly should be her own character witness? She tried to get Ms. Murphy’s attention, but her solicitor was busy fiddling with a paper clip. Molly plodded to the stand, her face burning with shame.

  “Could you state your occupation for the court?” Miss O’Donnell asked.

  Molly steered her eyes well away from Ursula’s.

  “I own Xpressions hair salon.”

  “How long have you known Mrs. Barnett?”

  “Ages, we’ve been mates,” Molly said as if revealing some hideous and mortifying secret.

  “She is a regular customer of yours, is she not?”

  “Every Wednesday at two, aye; wash and set.”

  “Could you tell us something about her character?”

  Molly felt her stomach lurch. She was certain she felt lasers of hatred beaming from Ursula and frantically wondered about witness protection schemes. Perhaps they could hide her away in some Proddy village. She had to force the words out of her mouth.