Hello there, you have reached the bowels of the black abyss. Leave a name and number and I will have my assistant call you straight back with our very best offers as soon as she is finished baking me a very delicious sponge cake.
Hello. Who is this? The muck savage from the ESB. What’s that? You have a question to ask about an unpaid bill. Well, let me ask you a question. Why don’t you turn off the lights once and for all? Answer me that, will you. If you answer me, I’ll answer you. That sounds fair, doesn’t it?
Hi there. You’re looking for the bill payer? There’s no such thing as a bill payer in this house. Goodbye.
And you are? Chalice Mitchell. That is a fantastic name you have there, Chalice Mitchell. And where in the world are you from with a name like that? Eureka, Oregon? And tell me, Chalice, what dragged you all the way from Eureka, Oregon to our boghole town? That would be telling, wouldn’t it? And what can I do for you today? You sold us some oil. Last winter. First of all, may I call you Chalice? I can? Thank you. Second of all, go suck an ice cube, Chalice.
I have a medical condition, I said to the rowdy voice on from the bin company. What’s that? Well, would you like the long version or the short version? The short? Very wise.
But he had no interest in my health, not even when I started in about my sordid pancreas and rancid goolies. If his bin bill wasn’t paid, he was sending his heavies around. I look forward to the new faces, I told him, and hung up.
And who’s this? Cunthook the fridge repair man? Bollox the boiler fixer? Wait. Are you the cranky old bat from the credit union wondering about the twenty thousand and steadily accumulating interest? You are! Well, I have two words of advice for you, lady. Shove it up your cooch!
Phew. I was tired after all that gabbing.
I plonked myself down on the sofa. What time was it now, I wondered? Look at that. Half past ten in the morning according to the talking head on TV. My, my. Around here, time doesn’t even fly when you’re having fun. By now my head was spinning, my heart was thumping like a train. Thudum-dedum. Thudum-dedum. Must be all that cake I’d eaten. That’s OK. I knew what to do. I popped another pill and hit the back lane.
IT COULD BE WORSE
– this was Patrick Cox’s story. He was out in the lane, chatting away to Rommel and Himmler, and he hardly noticed me approach.
What could be worse, Patrick?
Ah, young Jason, he said as soon as he saw me. Look at you. You’re like a lad on cloud nine.
That’s right, Patrick, I’m on clouds nine, ten, eleven and twelve, I said right back to him and he had a good chuckle for himself.
I was just sharing a thought or two with my best friends, he went on. Then he started pointing at one of the ditch trees.
You know, Patrick began, I once saw a five-euro note fluttering on that tree. I was going to pluck it, treat myself and Rommel and Himmler to a kebab. Then I had second thoughts, and said to myself, you know, Patrick, leave it there. Leave it, and if ever again someone has the nerve to say that money doesn’t grow on trees, you can take him by the hand, lead him to this very tree, point to the five-euro note flapping away and say look, look at that. Around here, money does grow on trees. Around here, anything can happen.
I had no idea what he was on about. Didn’t get a chance to find out because now he was mumbling something else, something about cop Lawless asking about me. No chance to hear more about that either, because by now Harry and Fergal had joined our little gathering by the tree. Afraid that she might be missing out on a matter of great importance, Lily the Nose wasn’t long waddling as far as us either. Her arrival soon had Rommel and Himmler growling and gnashing their hungry teeth.
Call off those hell hounds! Lily screeched. Call them off or I won’t share my news. Patrick coaxed his dogs away from her and at once she was into some sorry saga about the Slug and how he’d been given thirty days to get out of the house he had been living in for about the past five hundred years and how he had hauled himself down town and chained himself to the courthouse railings.
It’s a sign of the times, Harry said, and the others were nodding away and agreeing with him, including Rommel and Himmler, who now looked as if they would like to sink their teeth into whoever was telling the Slug he belonged on the streets.
It’s not like it used to be, said Patrick, as he tussled with his dogs.
Do you remember, Harry said next, as soon as Patrick’s dogs had simmered down. Do you remember they used to make a sandwich in Dublin that cost one hundred and fourteen euros?
Umbrellas in Tipperary used to be two hundred and forty-five euros, said Fergal.
Aye, and that was on a dry day, said Harry.
A fountain pen in Cork would set you back four hundred, said Fergal.
Well, I’m not going to Cork for a fountain pen, said Harry. I wouldn’t go there for a barrelful of fountain pens.
You’d go there for a barrelful of mucky porter.
That’s different.
Would you go to the Leitrim hills?
For a fountain pen or porter?
Porter.
I would.
There used to be gold in the Leitrim hills. That’s what I heard.
You heard arseways, and not for the first time. It’s in Cavan the gold was.
Yous are all hearing arseways, said Patrick Cox. The gold was in Monaghan.
Monaghan!
Yep. Monaghan.
Well fuck it anyway, that place is full of headbangers.
They were still at it as I skipped away. Couldn’t be listening to them. Sandwiches and umbrellas and fountain pens and mucky porter. Gold in Monaghan. Fock me! What would they think of next? Strings of pearls along the streets of our boghole town. Rubies on top of the Tower. Diamonds in the back lane. I looked to the Swamp. Oh, good. The girl was out on the rock. It was still early in the day and already I was badly in need of some normal conversation. I popped another pill, skipped the ditch and slid through the trees.
SWEET TALKING
What do you mean she’s gone?
I mean she’s gone. And get this. I know where to.
Oh yes?
Paris.
I see.
She’s with Mario Devine.
The bull-nut seller?
That’s right.
In Paris?
Yep.
She should have gone to ancient Greece. What are we going to do?
What do you mean?
I mean how is my father going to get to see your ma if she’s swanning about in Paris? Time is running out, you know.
Well, she’s gone and I can’t do anything about it. But look on the bright side. I have the place all to myself.
How is that looking on the bright side?
Because I am going to throw a party. I’ll invite you if you play your cards right.
Can I stay the night? I need to get away from my father. He’s crazier than ever.
You want to stay in my house?
That’s right. Just for a few nights. A week at most.
A week!
Maybe two.
Two?
It’ll be fun. Hey! We can jump into bed together. You can put your thing in me all night.
Nobody’s putting anything into anybody.
When I end up in your bed you won’t be able to resist me.
You are not getting in my bed.
We’ll see.
No we won’t see.
I hope you’re not one of these boys who are happy to do it to themselves. It causes blindness, you know. And warts. Then you get cancer. And you’ll go bald.
Jesus, you’re sounding like my ma again.
That’s why you wear a hoodie, isn’t it? Admit it, you’re going bald because you do it to yourself until your hand is ready to fall off.
Hey!
How many times a day? Fifteen? Thirty-five?
Come off it.
Be careful, you might hurt yourself.
Is your da still taking everything out on you?
>
He is. And his aim is improving. With your mother in Paris I don’t know what he’s liable to do.
Maybe you can stay.
That’s better. Before we jump into bed you can make me something nice to eat. And don’t forget to sweet talk me while we’re in the bath together.
We won’t be in any bath together.
I’ll come around tomorrow. Or the day after. You know, for once you may be right. Your mother being away is a good thing.
DODO THE CLOWN AND A HORSE CALLED TORMENTOR
So this lad goes to the doctor. Says he’s depressed. Says life is harsh and cruel. Says he feels all alone in a threatening world. Doctor says, treatment is simple. The great clown Dodo is in town tonight. Go see him. That should pick you up. Man bursts into tears. Says, But doctor . . . I am Dodo.
Is that another joke, Slug?
Ah, Christ!
But how is it a joke? The clown is sad and depressed.
You really need to change your attitude. Has anyone ever said that to you?
Who did this to you, Slug? I asked him next, looking at the chain he’d wrapped around himself at the courthouse railing. You had to hand it to Lily the Nose, her news was always spot on.
What do you mean, Who did this? I did it myself, you nitwit.
I get it. You’re making a protest. Have you got a list of demands?
Don’t be so childish. I am here to make a point on behalf of this couldn’t-care-less town.
I didn’t say anything to that. And the Slug manoeuvred himself so that he could sit with his back to the courthouse railings. The wart-and-speckled hands on him. The caved-in face. He didn’t really look like a protestor. More like a condemned man waiting his turn for the guillotine.
Hey, Slug. It’s going to be cold out here. Can I get you anything? A blanket. Or a hot drink.
No thanks.
But you don’t look very comfortable. I could bring you a pillow. And a sleeping bag. No self-respecting protestor goes without a sleeping bag these days. You should know these things, Slug.
Ah, don’t be completely daft. I’m going home to my bed as soon as the sun drops.
I was just trying to help, Slug.
Right so, pipsqueak. Get me a sugar donut.
A sugar donut? You’re going to be out here all day and all you want is a sugar donut?
That’s right. I need to keep up my energy levels. And here’s a euro. That’s not for the donut. I want you to put a bet on a horse for me.
What horse?
Tell you what. I’ll let you choose. Pick the winning horse and I’ll even split the pot with you.
I’ll even split the pot with you. I liked the sound of that. Would be nice to have some cash taking up room in my pocket. Would come in handy when it came to splashing out on my party.
Past Bill Corrigan’s pet shop. Past Happening Woman and Slevin the butcher. Past Freeman the auctioneer with the crooked smile and Doc Mullaney’s surgery. Past Shady Daly’s second-hand clothes shop. Past Puck Mahon’s men’s fashions, his CLOSING DOWN IN TWO WEEKS sign still in the window, as it had been every day for the past six months. Past Everything Is Two Euros. Dante’s chipper. The Hungry Worm. Past the post office and the credit union. Very quickly past Logan’s Pharmacy. Past Masterson the jeweller, after checking the time on one of the watches in his window. Felt for the Slug’s euro in my pocket. Checked the time again. Crossed the road. Fished the Slug’s euro coin out of my pocket and marched through the doorway of Patsy Fagan’s betting shop.
On the screens the midgets were fast with their whips and the horses were galloping. Over the fences they leapt, the cream of the town’s gamblers urging on their favourites. Go on, Blue Murder. Come on, Gethsemane. Up you get, Dreamy Lady. Gripped the euro coin. Grabbed a betting slip and pencil, looked at the list for the next race.
Lucky Star.
Half Pint.
Kilfenora Beauty.
Tormentor.
Black Beer.
Savage Times.
Cantankerous Old Lady.
Freida’s Delight.
A Donkey Called Dude.
Cinnamon Tart.
The Wife Doesn’t Know.
Little Miss Macho.
Was all set to bet on A Donkey Called Dude, but he was withdrawn from the race. Cantankerous Old Lady was a beautiful-looking horse, but kept kicking up her hind legs and the jockey was getting really fed up. Lucky Star was the favourite and was tempted by that. Decisions. Decisions.
Tormentor. A hundred to one.
I preferred the sound of that.
There was a gaggle of betting men in front of me. Waving their slips. Patting each other on the shoulder for good luck. Most of them already certain they were chasing a lost cause.
One euro on Tormentor, I told Patsy when I got to the counter.
To place or win?
Well, seeing as Tormentor is going to gallop home a country mile ahead of the rest of them, I suppose you better put me down for a win.
If you say so.
You can pay me half now if you want, Patsy. Save you having to count it all out later.
You’re a funny man, Jason. Tell you what, though, seeing as you made me laugh I won’t charge you any tax.
I squeezed my way through the crowd, stood below one of the high-up screens. In the crowd I saw Brains and No-brains, following the same race I’d bet on. The white flag came down. AND THEY’RE OFF! the commentator roared, and the room erupted, you’d have thought this was the last time horses were going to run.
Come on, Lucky Star.
Go on, Half Pint, you good thing.
That’s it, Kilfenora Beauty.
Nobody mentioned Tormentor. Good. Didn’t want to ruin its chances.
The horses were moving now and the whips were out and the commentator was listing out the names that crash-landed after the jumps. Cinnamon Tart. Black Beer. Freida’s Delight. They were down and out, and the losers around me were throwing up their arms and tearing up their slips. And the commentator was starting to get into it now. Kilfenora Beauty is a length ahead. She’s looking good. Like her mother before her. Lucky Star is fading and the others may as well have stayed at home in their stables. But wait! Hold on to your whips, Tormentor was making a late run. Up through the field she galloped. Past Little Miss Macho and Cantankerous Old Lady. Past The Wife Doesn’t Know and Cinnamon Tart, who was still galloping like a mad thing even though she had dumped her jockey jumps ago. Savage Times was left for dust and at this stage Lucky Star may as well have been travelling through outer space. And they were coming round the final bend and it was a two-horse race. Tormentor and Kilfenora Beauty. They were neck and neck. Kilfenora Beauty edged ahead. Then Tormentor. Then Kilfenora Beauty. Then Tormentor. Then they were past the post and it was impossible to say who crossed first. A photo-finish was declared and we’d have to wait until Mr Eyesight made his decision.
KILFENORA BEAUTY! the shout went out, and No-brains was leaping out of his stool, waving his betting slip, roaring out the name of his horse.
Who did you have? a lad with sagging shoulders asked me.
Tormentor.
Loser, Brains said, sticking his face right into me and he went up to collect his winnings.
But wait. Nobody was getting their winnings just yet. A steward’s enquiry was the call. And the screen was showing a re-run of the race and towards the end things got really interesting, especially when the camera zoomed in and showed the midget on Kilfenora Beauty leaning over with his whip and taking a swipe at the midget on Tormentor. And I’d say you could’ve heard as far away as Paris the collective howl that went up in the betting shop. And, just like that, Tormentor was the winner. And one or two of them in there were patting me on the back and nudging me up to the cash desk to collect my windfall, not that I needed nudging.
No-brains was still gyrating around the place, still thinking he was a winner. A few coins spilled out of his pocket, rolled everywhere. He bent down to pick them up and was crawling
on hands and knees after them when Brains caught up with him and landed his black boot up his brother’s backside.
Easy come, easy go, some of the others jeered as the pair of them hurried out of there.
I’ll be back, Patsy, I said when I was leaving myself, with a pocketful of cash. I know the name of next week’s winning horse too.
SHOPPING LIST
Sky-happy with my windfall, it was time to celebrate. I made a list of what I’d need on the back of the betting slip, wobbled light-headed and dizzy all the way from town as far as Mel Campbell’s shop. He looked up from his crossword, already shaking his head when he saw me.
Look who it is, he said weakly, when I stood swaying at the counter in front of him.
The one and only, I said.
And yet that’s still one too many.
You always give me a hard time, Mel.
Do I now? he said, drumming his fingers on the counter.
I suppose it’s because you bring out the worst in me.
And you’re starting to bring out a permanent headache in me.
Relax, Mel, I said. Your headache won’t get any worse. Not today, anyway. Did I tell you I’m throwing a party? Well, consider yourself invited. Mrs Campbell, too. Now, I have a list of things I need.
I reached in my pocket and pulled out the betting slip, set it down on Mel’s counter. Watched him snatch it and start to read.
I hope you have everything, Mel.
You do, do you?
If not, I can always go somewhere else. Tell me, have you double cream, Mel? And custard. I need loads of custard.
What!
Baking soda. Jelly. Caster sugar. I need a fair amount of currants. Better give me all the currants you have. And throw in some candles. One of my guests has a fondness for candles.
What!
Oh, and the Slug wants a donut. Make it two. Did you hear about the Slug? He’s down town chained to the courthouse railings.
Any excuse for that layabout.
He’s making sacrifices you and I wouldn’t dream of.
No fear of it being the ultimate sacrifice, I suppose?
The world doesn’t see its best people, Mel. That’s what the Slug told me. I think it’s men like you he has in mind when he says that.
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