The Irish Lottery Series Box Set (1-3)

by Gerald Hansen

  “First I wanny say I'm here under extreme duress, me lords. It grieves me to say it, but,” and here her voice grew even more conspiratorial, and the magistrates all leaned towards her, “I think Ursula’s going through the change. I'm wile heart-scared when she steps foot into the salon. We’ve to lock away the curling tongs for fear she’ll have a go at one of the clients with em!”

  “When did you notice this change in her personality?” Miss O’Donnell asked.

  “Ursula’s been a wee bit touched in the head ever since that lotto win.”

  “Could you give us some specifics?”

  “One week she’ll tip me fifty pee, another week fifty quid. She marched into the salon with a card and chocolates, like, on the tenth of April when everyone in Derry knows me birthday’s November 12th.”

  Molly chanced a glance at Ursula out of the corner of her eye, but instead of the rage she expected, Molly saw a woman struck dumb with betrayal, Ursula’s eyes pleading up at her in confusion, like those of an innocent child beaten senseless by a loving and trusted mother.

  “And was there ever a time when the defendant became violent?”

  “I kyanny...I kyanny...” Molly heaved huge gasps. “I kyanny continue, yer worships.”

  “May I remind you you are under oath,” Miss O’Donnell warned. “You have sworn to tell the truth.”

  “I'm terrible sorry, Ursula,” Molly pleaded. “They had me subpoenaed!”

  “Do not address the defendant!” Miss O’Donnell barked.

  Molly bowed her head in silent shame, then confessed haltingly.

  “A few weeks back, Ursula stormed into the salon in a right rage. Her two nieces had taken their granny, Ursula’s mother, in to get her hair done. Ursula was pure spitting when she laid eyes on em. Berated themmuns something terrible. She knocked that wee girl Siofra there to the tiles, and grappled her mother by the arm and made to drag the poor aul soul out the door. We were all afeared for the aul wan’s life. Anyroad, I made to ring 999, and Ursula finally saw sense. She fled the salon and I’ve not set eyes on her since. And it was only a wee demi-perm, yer honors.”

  Molly face was stippled with affliction, her fingernails lacerating the polished oak of the stand.

  “Your witness,” Miss O’Donnell smirked.

  Ms. Murphy jumped up, shuffling some papers in desperation.

  “You told the court you’ve been a friend of Mrs. Barnett’s for many years, did you not?”

  “I did, aye,” Molly admitted.

  “Yet you sit here today and sully her good name. Is betrayal one of the attributes Mrs. Barnett cherishes most in your friendship?”

  Molly burst into tears.

  “I'm under oath,” she sobbed, clutching at a tissue one of the magistrates proffered and harrumphing into it.

  “I have no more questions for this witness,” Ms. Murphy sneered.

  Molly scampered out of the courtroom to spew up in the nearest available loo and Ursula watched her go, firmly resolved from then on to get her washes and sets at NuStyles.

  “Your honors, I rest my case,” Miss O’Donnell said.

  As the court deflated and Moira scribbled furiously in her notepad, Ms. Murphy quickly took center stage.

  “For my first witness, your lordships, I call to the stand Jed Barnett.”

  Jed pledged, as the Lord was his witness, to tell the truth.

  “Please inform the court what you observed on the day in question.”

  “I was on the phone with a solicitor,” Jed said, “when I saw my wife run out of the house. I heard some yelling outside, then the screech of a car, then my wife ran back into the house and told me she had caught Padraig with four fire bombs. He had lit one and was aiming it at our house. She knocked it out of his hand, then he slapped her and when she went to slap him back, he ran into the street and into a car—”

  “Hearsay!” shrieked Miss O’Donnell.

  Jed looked sheepish, and Ms. Murphy shuffled through some papers.

  “What was your wife’s demeanor?” she finally asked.

  The memory of Ursula’s face twisted in rage still haunted him, but what use was a husband if he couldn’t lie for his wife in court?

  “Disappointed, I guess.”

  “And why did you not contact the authorities?”

  “Ursula said her family would hate her if she did.”

  “Thank you. Your witness.”

  Miss O’Donnell approached the stand like a vulture sniffing fresh carrion.

  “You told the court you were conversing on the phone during the incident?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How was it possible that you heard all the yelling and crashing while chatting away?”

  “I was on hold,” Jed said.

  “There was no music blaring into your ear while you were on hold?”

  Jed blinked.

  “There was music, I guess. Something classical. But it wasn’t blaring. Besides, I had moved the phone from my ear.”

  “And did you move your eyes to the door?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, did you not see anything?”

  “No, but—“

  “And this yelling you talk about before the sound of the crash you allegedly heard. Was it your wife’s enraged voice, or the terrified squeals of a child being beaten senseless?”

  Jed squirmed.

  “It...it seemed like Padraig yelling angrily at my wife.”

  “And this you could discern while classical music was bellowing down your ear?” Miss O’Donnell said, disbelief lacerating her voice.

  “I told you—“

  “You’ve told me many things,” Miss O’Donnell said. “Except what actually happened outside your front door, as you don’t have a clue, now do you?”

  “Well, I—”

  “Did you see the petrol bombs?”

  “No, but—”

  “Did you see Padraig slap your wife?”

  “No, but I told you—”

  “In other words, you can tell us absolutely nothing,” Miss O’Donnell said.

  “No, I—”

  “You may leave the stand.” She waved her hand as if shoeing away an irritating fly.

  “But...” Jed said weakly.

  Miss O’Donnell fixed him with a steely glare. Jed shrank back and slunk to his seat.

  “If it please the court, I now call Ursula Barnett herself to the stand.”

  Fionnuala would never had credited it, but as Ursula stepped up to the dock, she realized she no longer gave a cold shite in hell in seeing her being sent down. All she wanted was that compensation money.

  Ursula stared out at the rows of sneers in the public gallery and braced herself for the persecution.

  £ £ £ £

  Fidelma and Mr. O’Toole had scoffed down most of their curry chips and every last one of the TofuDippers. Fidelma’s ChipButtyKebab had three bites taken out of it, but still the TakkoKebab remained untouched. Bridie and Dymphna huddled together by the minerals dispenser, the clank of ice cubes cloaking their conversation from the milling staff. Dymphna, tetchy with anticipation, kept a rag flapping to simulate labor.

  “Ye see that slapper Fidelma’s here with Mr. O’Toole?” she said.

  “Aren’t ye after telling me he’s the father of yer wane?” Bridie asked. “Got himself a new fancy woman quick enough, like. How can ye stand the sight of the two of themmuns practically snogging the faces offa each other before ye like that? Disgraceful, so it is! Especially as yer man’s meant to be an arse bandit!”

  “It’s no odds, sure,” Dymphna said nonchalantly.

  Bridie stared, suspicion gleaming. Dymphna seemed to consider, then leaned over to whisper.

  “I kyanny keep it to meself no longer, Bridie!” she said, eyes glinting. “I'm after filling yer man’s TakkoKebab with ground glass!”

  Bridie’s eyes bulged, then her shock became anger.

  “Ach, wise up, you! Ye’re to get the fecking sack!” />
  “Chance’d be a fine thing!”

  “And I'm gonny be sacked right along with ye for recommending ye in the first place! If yer man keels over, have ye any notion how long were to be holed up here, what with the paramedics barging in and the Filth with their eternal interrogations? I'm on me ninth hour in this manky tip as it is! Get yerself over to that table and snatch it away from him now or I'm off to the management!”

  “I kyanny do that! What am I meant to tell him?”

  “I don’t give a piggin feck!”

  Dymphna stamped a petulant foot.

  “Naw,” she said.

  Bridie set her lips and launched a hand to her hip.

  “If you don’t get yerself over there, I’ll do it meself! And don’t bother punching yer time card here the tomorrow, for this’ll be the last ye clamp eyes on the back end of this counter!”

  Dymphna pleaded at her silently; she was spoiling everything. Bridie shoved a TakkoKebab into Dymphna’s hand and pushed her around the counter. Dymphna flashed her mate a look of betrayal and reluctantly wallowed towards the dining lovers, right as Mr. O’Toole was finally inching the pita between his gaping teeth. He flinched at the sight of her approach from the corner of his eye, but chomped down just as Dymphna screamed, “Get that outta yer mouth, hi!”

  She whipped the deathly TakkoKebab from his gob and froze as he kept chewing the lone bite.

  “That’s a HotDogKebab!” she said with an approximation of urgency, tossing down the untainted TakkoKebab. “I gave to it ye by mistake.”

  Mr. O’Toole smirked as his jaws worked. Dymphna peered curiously, searching his eyes for signs of pain, the soft flesh of his lips for traces of red.

  “A slapper and useless behind a counter and all!” he said through his full mouth. “What a winning combination!”

  Fidelma sniggered into the remnants of her curry chips. Dymphna wanted to smack the silly smile off the cunt’s face, but felt Bridie’s eyes boring into the back of her smock.

  Mr. O’Toole suddenly lurched up from the table, his face contorted, eyes bulging.

  “Mary Mother of God!” he mumbled through the pita and lettuce and glass, fingers flying to his lips. “What the flimmin feck?”

  Fidelma backed off in confusion, Mr. O’Toole squirmed in his tight slacks. Dymphna stood rooted to the spot, fascinated. He spat out the spiky mouthful. It shot through the air and spattered across Dymphna’s face. She yelped, and a hand shot to her eye, sharp white pain in a chunk of mince meat slitting the flesh of her eyelid, blood and garlic sauce dribbling down her cheek. O’Toole gasped in mortification and reached for a napkin as Fidelma pushed away her curry chips with a grimace.

  “I'm wile sorry, Dymphna,” Mr. O’Toole said, reaching out and gently wiping the mess off her cheek. “Christ almighty, but! What in the name of feck’s in them HotDogKebabs?! Feckin revolting!”

  “Get yer manky paws offa me!” Dymphna wailed with eye clamped shut, smacking his napkin away and skittering like the wounded beast she was toward the counter, unable to look Bridie in the eye, pushing away her helping hand as the slivers of pain shot through her speared eyelid.

  Dymphna maneuvered herself to the staff loos, squealing as her hip cracked into the chip fryer, and Bridie trailed in after her.

  “Have ye some tweezers in yer handbag?” Dymphna demanded with feverish hysteria, plopping the tainted TakkoKebab on the edge of the sink and peering through her one eye at her bloody self in the mirror. She was terrified of moving her injured eyeball one iota in its socket. “I'm feckin blinded!”

  “Serves ye bleedin right!” Bridie sniffed. “Ach, let’s have a look at ye.”

  Furious pounding shook the bog door.

  “What the feck are youse playing at in there?” roared the manager.

  They froze before the mirror, tiny drops of blood spattering into the sink. Bridie grabbed the TakkoKebab and shoved the evidence of malice into the bin.

  “We...have a wee problem here,” Bridie called out. “Go on and grab us the first aid kit? We’re in need of some tweezers and a Band-Aid, like.”

  “The pain, the pain!” Dymphna squealed, stamping her foot as agony shot through her eyelid.

  The door inched open. Dymphna turned and faced a row of prying eyes under camel caps peering in. The entire crew was assembled outside the loo door.

  “Clear off outta here!” Bridie roared, snatching the first aid kit from the manager’s hand. “Can ye not see the poor wee girl needs some privacy?”

  Bridie slammed shut the door. She grabbed Dymphna’s face with both her hands and inspected the eyelid. Dymphna whimpered and squirmed.

  “Ach, blinded me arse!” Bridie snorted. “One tiny sliver of glass’s lodged in yer eyelid, just, half the size of me wee toenail. Yer eyeball’s grand, so it is.”

  Fifteen minutes later, shard of glass plucked from the tender flesh, retina rinsed clean of blood and spicy sauce, plaster affixed and Dymphna was feeling right as rain. Six paracetamol had helped. She reluctantly scribbled out an incident report, then lurched for her time card.

  “I’ve to get meself to the courthouse,” she explained as she clocked off. As she hurried through the dining area, glaring at O’Toole’s TakkoKebab still sat on their empty table, untouched, she glanced at her mobile, but instead of the time, a text message flashed out at her. I no all about it u cant hide my uncles a copper! Rory

  Rory? Surely not Rory Riddell? He must have seen her by the chip fryer, maybe lurking by the rubbish bins, as she shook the glass into the TakkoKebab! Gnawing at her lip, the pain in her eyelid suddenly throbbing, she heaved her handbag over her shoulder and headed out of the ChipKebab, heavy with new grief.

  £ £ £ £

  “We’ve all heard what your husband said happened on the day in question. I’ve no doubt you concur with him in every detail?”

  “Aye,” Ursula nodded.

  “We’ve no need, then, to repeat the story,” Ms. Murphy said. “Let’s concentrate on the details. Do you swear by almighty God that Padraig Flood slapped you first?”

  “I do, aye.”

  “And this was because he was angry that you had quashed his plans to petrol bomb your house?”

  “Aye.”

  “And that, without provocation on your part, he ran into the street on his own accord?”

  Ursula nodded eagerly. “Aye, aye,” she breathed.

  For the first time, Ursula felt as if the case might be going her way, now she was being given the chance to tell her own part of the story.

  “Thank you. Your witness.”

  Ursula jumped—that was it?—as did the magistrates. In the public seats, Jed wondered briefly if they could put a stop on Ms. Murphy’s check.

  Miss O’Donnell sidled up to Ursula.

  “Why have you no evidence of these alleged petrol bombs?”

  Ursula composed herself as best she could.

  “If only I had’ve thought to keep em as proof. I threw them into the wheelie bin, and I kyanny help it that it happened on a Wednesday, and that’s the day, me lords, when they come to collect the rubbish.”

  Miss O’Donnell snorted as if she thought Ursula story was nothing but rubbish.

  “Why is there no police record of this ‘attack?’ Why did you not contact the authorities?”

  “I wish to the Lord Almighty above I would’ve done it now. I relented out of common Christian decency, not wanting to see members of me own family dragged through the courts. Not that that stopped themmuns from doing the same to me.”

  She glared pointedly in the public seats. Miss O’Donnell gave the assembled masses a look which said “likely story.”

  “You’ve heard much evidence weighing against your own version of the events. I wonder what you could possibly have to say in your defense, Mrs. Barnett?”

  Ms. Murphy flashed her a look of warning. Ursula ignored the useless cow.

  “There’s no justification whatsoever for dragging me into court like a common hooliga
n!”

  Miss O’Donnell started. “No justification?”

  “Yer honors, anyone with an ounce of common sense can see them stokes has piled into the court to try to claw the money outta anyone in their path that has it.”

  Eyebrows were raised all around the magistrate’s bench, and as Ursula’s voice grew, Fionnuala gave a little prayer of thanks to the Lord that Ursula had been born with red hair, her temper unable to control itself.

  “Are you implying this is all a fabrication?” one of them asked, leaning forward with great interest.

  “Aye, I'm are! A wee glance at them X-rays and ye can see that skull there’s too big for a wee nadger like Padraig! And if them damages ye see done to the ribs would’ve been his, he’d be in a body cast for life!”

  “How could this simple working class family have procured these X-rays if—”

  “Two spastics with one brain cell between em can figure out they got them documents bought off some shady site on the flimmin internet!”

  “But these hospital reports—”

  Ursula spat her disgust and singled out Moira with a trembling finger.

  “Ach, that wan’s got a bean flicker lover working at Altnagelvin, sure! Wile simple, it would be, for the filthy perv to nick some letterhead and scribble down some maladies!”

  Moira set her lips and scratched out Wronged Woman on her notepad.

  “If that wane’s damages is so extensive, why for the love of God is there not one single photo of em? When Padraig left the side of the car, he was the picture of health, flipping me off and language not fit for even a sailor spewing from his mouth.”

  “There are extremely serious allegations you are making, madam,” a magistrate said over his pince-nez.

  “I put it to the court,” Ms. Murphy swiftly intervened. “Why would this upstanding member of St. Moluag’s choir invent a pack of lies?”

  The magistrates on the bench exchanged glances, seemingly thinking of many reasons why she should. The Floods all looked startled at the news Ursula was singing at their neighborhood church.

  “I'm a decent Christian woman, me,” Ursula insisted, “never told a lie in me life and I'm saddled with sinners and heathens and hooligans for family. Mortified, I'm are, to call the likes of themmuns family! Their mother’s a Heggarty, and youse all know what that means!”