by Martha Long
‘I’m tellin ye!’ he puffed. ‘You really fancy yerself, you do! All I can say is ye must a be born wit a silver spoon in yer mouth te get them ideas about yerself,’ he said, flying his head up and down at me with a half-disgusted laugh in his tired old eyes.
I looked at him, seeing he was serious, and even a bit in contempt at the idea I was well off while he had to struggle for a life. ‘No, Dickie, it’s not like you think,’ I said quietly. ‘Right from the onset you have to put a high price on yourself or the world will sell you short. Why settle for cider when you can have champagne? Life has always been out there for the taking; you just need something to offer and the world will take you as it finds you.
‘Here’s what you do, Dickie. You look that doctor straight in the eye, and say, “Listen, sonny! I’m an old man. I smoke, I enjoy me smoke, I’m going to keep on smoking, and they can bury a packet with me when they put me into the ground. I’m here now because I’m ailing, and I’m keeping you in a job. So, get on with it!” Then blow smoke in his face, Dickie, if he gets cheeky,’ I laughed, looking straight into his eyes, willing him not to be afraid. For all his bluff I could see it was to cover up a very soft heart.
He stared at me, thinking, then roared laughing, saying, ‘Jaysus! Ye’re right there! Why should I let them push me around? Bejaysus! Hurry up there an find them smokes,’ he snorted, whipping his head around at the stuff all piled on his bed.
‘Eureka! Here we go, hidden in the wash bag!’
‘Ah, yeah, now I remember!’ he said, letting his red rheumy eyes light up with the excitement as his wrinkled old face creased into a huge smile, making him look soft and gentle. ‘Right! Get me dressin gown an slippers again. I’m off te tha tilet for a long smoke.’ Then he was up and gone, flying out the door on his poor aul wobbly, skinny little legs. ‘See ye in a few minutes,’ he whispered, disappearing outa sight.
I turned me head back to Jackser, then got up and strolled over to stand beside his bed. ‘So, how are you sick? What ails ye, Jackser?’
‘Yeah! So well ye might ask!’ he croaked. ‘Was it me ye came te visit, or are ye in the bleedin Legion a Mary now, comin te see any aul fucker?’
‘Ah, stop moaning, Jackser, I’m here to see you’ – watch you die roarin, I thought, feeling a perverse satisfaction I had rattled his cage. ‘Now, go on, tell me, what ails ye? How did you land up here? Did the doctor say anything? Will you fucking talk to me?’ I said, seeing the same old Jackser, always trying to stay on top of people, keep them in their place by getting them first.
‘I’m not meself,’ he groaned, lifting his shitty-brown bloodshot eyes up at me, then letting his face collapse and the mouth droop.
Jesus! I thought, lifting the eyebrows into the air, letting me face stretch. He looks like a sad, miserable aul bloodhound, waiting to be put down. I moved over and pulled back a chair, sitting myself down. He closed his eyes and I puffed me cheeks out, wondering what to do next. I looked around the ward, seeing all the old men had dozed off, looking like they were waiting for the next exit out of here.
Jesus! This place is like a waiting room for death. I could sense it in the sour smell of decay, as even the false teeth melted in the heat. The room was heaped with tired old bodies sending out gases from every pore, and the heavy snoring with the agonised wheezy breathing made it sound like a train heaving off with the whistle blowing.
You could nearly expect any minute to hear a voice suddenly booming out, ‘Will all passengers waiting to take their final journey please prepare to depart,’ then a last whistle blasts out and suddenly everything changes. Ghostly figures start wafting out from everywhere, moving closer together, all gathering in a wide-open space. The air is thick, heavy with the terrible silence. It bodes terror; it is just waiting to erupt from the confusion, the fear. It is all coming from the minds of the bewildered souls who suddenly, without warning, found themselves trapped in this no-man’s-land of waiting. The screams of terror stay locked down in their chests. They only know one thing: they are waiting for something. Because in this moment they are neither alive nor yet quite dead. The space has neither sky nor land, it has no stars, no anything. It is neither light nor dark. Then they start to move towards something, or someone.
Yeah, death! I wonder what it must be like for Jackser, knowing he is so close to it? Will he be thinking about heaven and hell? I wonder does it really exist, this heaven and hell, and what it would be like. If I close my eyes, I can see the imagined Angel of Death I thought existed when I was a child, but without the horns and hoofs – something more realistic. I can see him now. He is suddenly appearing, looking very ominous. He stands with the book of life in his hands, looking out over the vast distance at the assembled multitude, the never-ending space thick with the millions of newly dead. His eyes, looking like shiny black coals, glimmer out of the hood of his long black habit. Behind him there is a sudden commotion, as in rushes a ghostly white figure, drifting in a halo of bright light.
Suddenly lights blaze on one side of a great room, while the other is illuminated with a muted red glow, making that side look very cosy. ‘Terribly sorry to keep you waiting,’ says a man wearing a long, gold-silk coat buttoned to the neck, with matching embroidered pointed slippers. He has a thick mane of white-gold hair wafting down in waves, settling on his shoulders.
The room held its breath as everyone watched his move. He rushed up the steps of a white marble podium, then lifted his striking blue eyes to the crowd, looking out over them, then dropped his head to a big gold book, settling it on the book rest.
The other fella stood waiting patiently watching him. Under his black cloak he wore a red-silk tailed coat with embroidered gold buttons, tight black gaiter trousers, shiny black-leather shoes with gold buckles and a long black wavy wig on his head, with a red scarf tied in a bow at his neck. ‘Shall we begin?’ he asked politely, dropping his book on the rest, sounding fed up at being kept waiting so long.
‘Terribly sorry, Nick dear!’ Peter said to the fella standing looking at him with the eyebrows raised and the mouth twisted, looking the picture of fed-up patience.
‘Oh, no! By all means take your time, I have an eternity to wait!’ said Nick, giving his hair a stroke. ‘But if I may, it is Nicolai to you! I am just back from Paris!’ he said, giving a slight bow of the head, wanting to look the picture of elegance and dignity. ‘Yes, wonderful season they’re having! French Revolution, you know. I had the most marvellous time with Robespierre. Lots of blood and gore! The man is simply a genius. Heads, heads and more heads rolled and bit the dust! Wonderful! Haven’t had such fun since the … Oh, my goodness! How the ages fly!’
Then he suddenly stopped waxing lyrical and snapped, ‘Well, do get on with it, Pierre! I am anxious to sort this lot out and get back, see what the brutes have been doing in my absence.
Peter stared, taking in a huge, slow, deep breath, listening, then exploded, ‘ME? GET ON WITH IT?!’
Nick nodded, the head watching with the eyes opening wide, then wider as he slowly bit his fingers wondering what he did wrong. Then it hit him.
‘Oh! Terribly sorry for being so rude, Pierre old chap!’ he gasps, then starts nattering again, the very thing he was just giving out about, forgetting it was himself doing all the talking. ‘How did yours go? Did you spend your holiday anywhere interesting? Hmm! Still chasing that little golden-haired bit of fluff thingy, built like Dolly Parton? Haw, haw!’
‘Please! Do drop the pretentious nonsense! Peter to you!’ he sniffed, looking away then turning back and lowering his voice. ‘Actually, I was in conference with …’ he said, pointing the finger up to the heavens. ‘Working out the new living quarters. We have to segregate the husbands from the wives. The men are complaining it was only “Death until us do part!” Now they can’t enjoy themselves with all the delectable … Ahem! They are demanding their right to freedom!’ he said quickly, trying to find the right words.
‘Oh, indeed, I do get the picture, Pierre old boy,�
�� Nick smiled, letting a slow grin spread across his face.
‘Yes, and oh, please! I do not chase little bits of thingy, as you so vulgarly put it. I am all purity! Sacred. I must maintain my position as I am PETER! LORD, KEEPER OF THE KEYS TO HEAVEN AND HIS KINGDOM ON EARTH!’ he intoned loudly, eyes piously raised to heaven, then sniffed and dropped them, giving his locks a twirl, looking down to examine his pointy embroidered slippers.
‘Oh, how awfully boring. Well, as you know! I do not have to kowtow to anyone. I own the whole kingdom of hell! Voila!’ Nick said, twirling his finger to land down below.
‘Oh, how the mighty have fallen!’ sniffed Peter, now looking bored himself, letting his eyes wander around the walls.
‘Well, actually …’ says Nick, but then gets interrupted by a great booming voice.
‘GENTLEMEN! PRAY! PLEASE! DO GET ON WITH THE JOB! Your guests are waiting,’ the booming voice now said gently. ‘You may continue your bickering repartee during your leisure.’
‘Oh, it is “He” who must be obeyed,’ whispered Nick, as they both dropped their heads to the books.
‘I shall take first roll call,’ said Peter, bowing his head politely, smiling to Nick.
‘Do! By all means,’ bowed Nick, smiling back.
Peter let his eyes run down the book, then lifted his head and coughed, looking over the masses with the sound of quivering skin and rattling bones as they all shivered, waiting to hear their fate.
‘MOTHERS! GRANDMOTHERS! Please step forward and join me to my right.’ There was a sudden shocked burst of ohhhs! Crying, laughing with tears, sniffing and squeals of delight as people stood with their mouths gaped open, waiting to hear.
‘That’s us! Hurry, Nelly, we made it!’ one granny shrieked, grabbing the arm of another old woman getting herself lost in the stampeding crowd all rushing to stand beside Peter. Then he smiled and bowed to Nick when that lot were settled – they were now sitting along a golden coach with red padded seats and nuns waiting to drive them away.
‘MURDERERS! Please join me on my left,’ said Nick, smiling at the crowd now suddenly scattering as the place went mad.
‘Noooo! FUCK OFF!’, ‘Get me outa here!’, ‘Andiamo! Where fire escape?’, ‘MAMMY! Save me!’
‘Come along now, don’t be shy,’ said Nick, trying to encourage them to turn in his direction. They were all killing each other to get out of the way as they tried to make it out first, heading for the fire exit. A door blew open when someone grabbed hold of the bars, then a sudden roaring noise hit the room as red-hot flames burst up from down below. It was even more shrieks of panic as they turned tail now, heading back into the room.
Nick smiled down, turning his head from left to right, his smile slowly broadening into a huge grin as he watched them all suffocating. They were mad with the panic as they blindly crashed around the room, now screaming in fear and choking with the sudden burst of smoke.
‘Orderly queue, please. We are British here. RULE BRITANNIA!’ he suddenly roared, then let it quieten to a hum. ‘Britannia rules the waves. All happy, are we?’ he said, smiling when they finally settled themselves down and shuffled into a stop, glaring up at him, knowing they were bet!
‘Next,’ he said, dropping his head looking down the list. ‘POLITICIANS! TAX INSPECTORS! BURGLARS! And … car-park attendants!’ he muttered, giving a dirty look to the car-park lot holding up their placard showing who they were. ‘Please join me on my left,’ he sniffed.
‘We were only doin our jobs!’ they complained. ‘No, we can’t a heard right! It can’t be us!’ they wailed, looking around at each other in confusion, shaking their heads in denial.
‘Come along now, gentlemen, we must keep moving. Long list today. Sunday-morning business always brisk after a boozy weekend,’ he smirked, looking over at Peter with the head buried; he was busy checking his lists.
‘I wish to speak to God! This is insufferable! I did not fiddle my expenses!’ shouted a purple-faced, baldy politician.
‘ORDER, ORDER!’ shouted the Speaker of the House of Commons, then looked to see the effect on Nick, hoping to curry favour.
‘You’re a shower of shite gombeen eegits!’ shouted a culchie politician from the Irish lot. ‘Whose feckin idea was it to take us all on dat heap-of-junk government jet? The feckin thing crashed over the Indian ocean, killin the lot of us!’ he exploded, carrying his right arm under his left one.
‘No, we’re not movin outa this; ye can’t make us! We demand an appeal te the labour court!’ a skinny little runt roared up, lifting the neck and strangling himself because the peanut head was buried in an overcoat two sizes big for him.
‘And you would be?’ Nick said, leaning his head over to smile down at the little aul fella.
‘Midget! Midget Malarkey, representin decent hard-workin burglars from Dublin! Dead Man Square te be exact. Do ye get tha? A no-go area for youse fuckers, or any other fuckers who think they can come in an act the hound wit us!’ he said, stretching the neck and slapping the collar down, making himself look bigger. ‘Now! An I was sayin …’
But before he could get another word in, a voice roared up from the middle. ‘I’m the union spokesman for “Murder Incorporated” … I mean car parkers! For all a me brother workers here,’ said a huge bull-necked fella swaggering closer to the front. ‘Tha right? Am I right in sayin tha?’ he dared, looking around him at all the hands waving and heads nodding.
‘Be Jaysus ye are! You tell him, Bullocks Ham!’
‘Yeah, go on, Hammer me aul son! We’re right behind ye, boss. Dublin Ghougers, Animal Gang! My stampin ground. Just call if ye need a hand. Mugser Chickmunk’s the name!’ roared a fat-faced aul fella with a pot belly and a mass of ginger hair standing to attention. Only problem was, the head had to shout from under his arm as he was carrying it!
‘Hmm, interesting,’ said Nick, looking down at his list. ‘Oh, you crafty old devils!’ he smiled, letting his face light up in a huge grin. ‘Sorry, old boys! All nine hundred and seventy-four of you hiding under the banner of car parking! You lot shift yourselves over to MURDERERS!’
There was sudden silence and all heads turned on Bullocks Ham.
‘The dumb bastard just gave the game away, dropped us clean fuckin right in it!’ a voice growled, coming from somewhere deep in the thick of the hiding murderers.
‘Oh, for hell’s bells! Make an orderly queue, or would you all prefer to take the fast exit?’ Nick sighed, pointing at the fire exit, losing patience now.
They all turned in silence then shifted, making a mad dash to stand next to him on the left.
‘Quite ready?’ he asked mildly, seeing them pushing and shoving, shuffling next to and away from him, then finally settling down to wait.
‘Next! LAWYERS!’ he boomed, looking down his list then smiling in a saintly way up at the crowd of shifty-looking men wearing wigs and gowns. Some were in Savile Row suits, peering up through Gucci spectacles.
‘NONSENSE! We demand an immediate appeal to the supreme being! Send for him at once!’
‘HEAR, HEAR!’ roared the wigs and suits, slapping their papers and stamping their feet.
Nick shifted his head slowly to Peter, raising his eyebrows with the question, a smile playing around his lips.
Peter lifted his eyes from the list to look down shaking his head, then over at Nick, saying, ‘The road to hell is paved with lawyers. No appeal, Mi’lord high above has said in a precedent. Let me see now what the details are.’
‘Oh, yes! Mr Justice K.M. Stiffneck, plaintiff in the trial versus the defendants Lord of Heaven and Faust, supreme ruler of hell.’
‘Indeed,’ chuckled Nick, bowing his head at the acknowledgement. ‘It was the year of our Lord, seventeen … Oh, that will do. Thank you kindly for that, Peter dear! APPEAL DENIED!’
The words were out just as the ceiling lifted with the sudden eruption of roars and shouts, then the stampede of feet and papers thrown into the air now flying everywhere. One floated down, landing
smack in front of Nick’s face. He whipped it up reading, looking very interested, then clucked to himself as his eyes shot down the page. ‘Tut, tut. Lies, lies! All lies! More lies, Mi’lord!’ he whispered softly, then lifted his head, throwing the paper over his shoulder, letting a slow smile break out on his face. It turned into a huge grin as he folded his arms, watching the melee. Wigs flew and gowns flapped as they tore into each other, all fighting to get through the same door – the one with the gold plate marked ‘Heaven’. They didn’t make it! There was no knob to turn. Their banging, hammering, pushing and heaving did no good. It was made a pure steel.
They turned their attention back on Nick; he was waiting with the ready grin.
‘NEVER! We do not accept this ruling!’ a scream went up.
‘No! Impossible – always but always there is a way out! Anyone got a law book? Oh, may the Lord not have mercy on our souls?!’ cried a skinny little man, looking around him confused, wondering if he could spot God himself. Then he eased his head up, spotting Nick giving him the eye. Hope! He shuffled over, filling up with it, then stood praying up at him.
‘Oh, surely there must be pity for such a wretch as me! I mean, what about justice and mercy? We are both English gentlemen, held in high esteem for our fair play and …’
‘Indeed? There was not much justice and mercy shown when you were on the bench, old boy. Actually, I think you were one of my favourites! Quite enjoyably entertaining, in fact,’ Nick smiled, nodding down at the little man who was shoving the wig into his mouth, the eyes now turning in the back of his head at hearing this. Nick then dropped the smile and lifted himself, raising the head and sniffing the air, taking in a deep breath. ‘Lord Cock-Shoot Featherburns, get thee beside me! I am Satan, Lord of Darkness, your new master!’
