Sunday, 20 December 2015

Crash, Bang, Wallop.

It was a miserable night, in all aspects of the word. Peter staggered across the road and felt the rise of the bridge under his feet. The streets were empty, only the odd taxi cruised past, with tyers hissing like vexed serpents on the damp surface of the street. A cold mist rose from the river below, mixing with the drizzle falling from the sky above, combining to soak him to the skin. Peter didn't care, in fact he cared about nothing right now. The city looked as desolate as his heart felt, the only living thing stirring, besides himself, was a little black dog that had been following him since the incident in the park.

He lifted a bottle of vodka to his lips and let the last of the burning liquid wash over his tongue and cascade down his gullet, to mingle with the tight ball of hate and darkness, that rested in his gut like a cannon ball. He looked at the empty bottle and snarled, then launched it overhand, across the churning chocolate water of the river below. The bottle vanished without even making a ripple in the the surging current of the Thames.

"Bitch," he slurred, as he looked into the darkness under the bridge. The bitch in question was, of course, Missy. A stupid name, for a stupid girl, thought Peter, rummaging in his soaked jeans for his phone. Still no messages.

He and Missy had been going out since he'd started studying sculpture at The Heatherley School of Fine Art, well a month after he'd started really. That was nearly a whole year of going out! Except the summer, he hadn't seen her during the summer, but they had been texting all the time, and skyping! Nearly a whole year! Tonight he had turned up at her flat, like he did most Tuesdays, and she dumped him, right there on the doorstep, didn't even ask him in.

He wandered away from her slamming front door, wondering what the hell had just happened. He walked as if sleeping, his mind not willing to accept he'd been so easily castoff. He came out of his haze on the steps of a bar, it was destiny. Right the way through his first pint of Heineken, he was sure she would come charging through the pub door, falling into his arms amidst a flood of tears, begging him to forgive her. By the time his second pint of Heineken was empty, rage filled texts were flying. He called her every name under the sun, and a few more besides. His third pint of Heineken did something to dampen the flames of anger which threatened to burn him up from inside, and so began the begging. He'd called her a couple of times, pleading to be taken back, alright, eleven times, before she stopped picking up. Since then, he had sunk into a bottomless pit of despair, fuelled by several more pints of Heineken, and a natural bent for the over
dramatic.

After leaving the pub with a full naggin of vodka in his pocket, he decided a Kebab might make him feel better. He found a bench in 'World's End Estate' and slumped there, taking half hearted bites, crying in between bouts of uncontrolled rage. When he eventually flung the half eaten Kebeb away in one of his more passionate fits, a little black terrier raced out of nowhere and devoured the sticky mess in seconds. When Peter shuffled off, the little dog trailed along behind him, clearly hoping for more treats. Since then, he and his furry shadow had wandered the streets, drinking the vodka, and mumbling gems of drunken wisdom.


That was how he ended up on Battersea Bridge in the middle of the night with nobody but a stray dog for company. Peter, grabbed hold of one of the lamps dotting the hand rail, and hauled himself up onto the balustrade. He stared down into the the swirling water below and thought, if Missy happened to come along at that exact moment, she would have a heart attack. One slip, and she would have killed the love of her life. Now that was something Missy deserved to know. Holding on to the lamp with his left hand he speed-dialed Missy with his right, and held the phone to his ear. It rang only twice before the call was rejected and a cold female voice said, "The person you are trying to call, may be out of coverage or have their mobile powered off."

"BITCH!" Peter roared at the phone. In the same instant there came a crash of metal from directly behind him, and a symphony of little dog yelps. Peter spun around and his foot slipped off the edge of the slimy metal. He threw both arms around the lamp post, in the process, he dropped his phone into the boiling mass of water below. Laid out on the foot path, was a mangled heap of body and bicycle, its wheel still spinning. Peter could hear the little dog yelping crazily, as it vanished into the distance.

"Ah you flamen hooligan! You tried to kill me!" cried the old geezer, as he tryed to push the bike off himself.

"Not bloody likely, if anything you nearly killed me," slurred Peter, still hanging on to the lamp.

The old man groaned as he tried to move, and sounded even more vexed when he said, "If screaming at the top of your lungs at innocent cyclist is not thuggery, I don't know what is. And, you're pissed!"

"I am not!" Peter said, trying to sound sober.

"Yes you are, why the hell else would you be up there?"

"None of your business."

"Hooligan!"

"I am not a Hooligan."

"If you're not, get the hell down from there and help me up."

"Oh, right, yes," said Peter, realising that he was still holding on to the lamp. He gingerly lowered himself back onto the bridge and went over to the old man, grabbing one arm, he tried to pull the man to his feet.

"STOP!" screamed the guy, as he stiffened in agony.

"What now?" said Peter, dropping the mans arm, and jumping back a step. After a good minute of facial contortions, the old man gasped, "It's me back. It's gone."

"How do you know?" asked Peter.

"God, you are an idiot," snarled the old man.

"What should I do?" asked Peter, reaching down toward the man once more.

"DON'T BLEEDEN TOUCH ME!"

"Alright, alright," said Peter, backing away. "Should I call an ambulance?" he asked, then realised his phone was somewhere near the Channel Islands by now.

"NO! No. It's happened before. I just need to lie here for a bit. Move the bike will you."

Peter stooped to grab the bike, but in his drunken state he nearly fell on top of the old man.

"Careful, yea piss head!"

"I'm not a piss head! I wish you'd stop calling me names," said Peter, eventually untangling the bike from the old man's legs.

"Look, what ever you're name is, get my phone from my pocket. I need to tell my misses what's happened."

Peter patted the man's pockets and found the phone. He searched the contacts until he found one labeled 'Home'. He pressed the green button and held it out to the old man lying on the ground.

"I can't move my arms, dumbass"

"Peter."

"What?"

"My name is Peter, not dumb ass, piss head or hooligan."

"Peter!" the man said, with barely controlled rage, "hold the phone so I can talk to her."

Peter sat on the ground and held the phone to the old man's ear, while it rang in some far off place. Eventually, Peter heard a tiny woman's voice say "Hello?"

"Dotty, its me," which was followed by a silence, and a lot of angry little woman squeaking coming from the phone. Peter watched the old man's face go red, as he was clearly given an ear bashing by his missus.

"No, I am not still in the Legion. I was on the way home when a idiot knocked me off my bike."

"Peter," slurred Peter, causing the old man to scowl at him.

"No, I'm not alright! My back is flamen clicked out again!" roared the old man into the phone, which was followed by a long silence, and lots more tiny angry lady sounds from the phone.

"Sorry Dear," said the old man quietly, followed by another long pause.

"Yes, sorry Dear," he said again, even sorrier, if that was possible.

"Battersea Bridge. Yes, yes, I will," another pause, followed by a final "Sorry. Bye."

Peter ended the call and smiled smugly at the old man before saying, "It seems I'm not the only piss head on this bridge tonight."

"Rubbish, I only had the one."

Peter pulled up his sleeve and looked at his watch, "Till half past four in the morning?"

"I'm a slow drinker."

"Tell it to your missus," said Peter with a knowing smile, pushing the man's phone back into his pocket. The old man tried to sit up but his back spasamed and he eased himself back onto the pavement.

"Is she coming to get you?" asked Peter.

"Yea, in a bit," growled the man, his mood not improving in the slightest. "Don't let me keep you, I think you were about to jump into the river."

"No I was not," said Peter, but he still went a little pink in the cheeks.

"Listen, chum. I know a jumper when I see one, and you were  a jumper."

"Look, I told you I wasn't going to jump into the bloody river."

"Lost your bottle? Knew you were a wuss," sneered the man.

Now it was Peter's turn to get angry, "I'll have you know, if I had been going to jump, I most certainly would have!"

"Keep your wig on, dingbat," said the old man, smiling for the first time. "Well if weren't jumping, what were you doing up there?"

"I was calling my girlfriend, actually."

"Rubbish."

"Why would I lie?"

"Why would you be screaming 'Bitch' at your girlfriend?"

"That's personal," replied Peter, sulkily.

The old man gave a stern look and said, "If she had any sense, she'd send you packing, talking to a woman like that?"

"She dumped me, if you must know. How long will your missus be?" said Peter, not liking that the man had seen the core of his misery.

"Ah! Good girl herself, I like her already."

"You're not very nice, do you know that?" said Peter, taken aback at how caustic this crumpled little man was being.

"At my age, I'm allowed to be a bit grumpy, and that's before some teenage headbanger knocks me off my bike," said the old man, very satisfied with himself.

"If you keep calling me names, I'm going home. My arse is getting cold sitting in the wet."

"It would be a lot colder if you had ended up down there," said the old man, flicking his eyes toward the edge of the bridge.

"I really wasn't going to jump," said Peter, sounding sad.

"One thing I've learned, Peter, is that things nearly never seem as bad in the morning as they do at night."

"You called me Peter," said Peter.

"I must be loosing my touch," said the old man. "I think my back is a bit better now, lets try getting up again, but easy this time."

Peter stood and took as much of the old man's weight as he could. Inch by inch, the old man sat up, then, just as a car approached, he managed to get to his feet. The car slowed and pulled up on the road beside them. The drivers door sprang open, and a beautiful girl wearing just pajamas and runners dashed to the old man.

"Are you hurt, Grandad?" she asked, taking his free arm across her shoulder. Her long blond hair fluttered in the breeze and Peter got the faintest smell of shampoo and warm bed, floating across his nostrils.

"It looks worse than it is, Simona," the old man said, taking a hobbling step.

"What on earth happened?" she asked.

The old man paused, he glanced at Peter out of the corner of his eye before saying, "A dog knocked me off my bike."

"Come on, lets get you into the car. Thanks for helping him," said Simona to Peter. Her eyes were light blue with a sprinkling of diamond dust through them. Even though the light was dim, they twinkled like stars on a clear winters night.

"It's no problem, I was just hanging around," said Peter, which caused the old man to stifle a guff remark. Once they had eased the old man into the back seat of the car, Simona asked her Grandad what she should do with his bike.

"Tell Peter to take it home, its a dirty night to be walking. He can bring it back in the morning. Give him the address," said the old man, trying to make himself comfortable in the back of the car. Peter stood the bike up, it looked in working order. After a few moments, Simona came around the back of the car and handed him the address, written on the back of an old receipt.

"Do I know you? You look familiar?" she asked, tilting her head to one side.

"I don't think so. I'd remember meeting you," said Peter with a cheesy grin.

"Charmer," she said, taking the complement with a smile. "Seriously, were do you work?"

"I don't. I'm a student in Fulham," he said.

"That art college place," she said, I do know you. You come into Costa Coffee, it's just down the road. I work there."

"Really?" said Peter, rubbing a lock of sopping hair out of his eyes.

"I look different in my hairnet," she giggled. "Next time you're in, the coffees are on me." She was about to get behind the wheel of the car when she paused," My number is on there, in case you have trouble finding the house."

With that, she was gone. Peter tucked the receipt safely into his inside pocket, before throwing his leg over the bar of the bike. Just then, the first rays of morning started to lighten the sky in the east. Peter paused and smiled, "Things do look better in the morning," he thought and rode for home.



Monday, 30 November 2015

All Aboard, Father Tom

There are always little jobs that need to be done around the church, even when things are quiet. Father Tom had been doing battle with a blocked drain in the car park for most of the morning, and when he finally got it free, he was half an hour late for lunch with Jane. He hurried home, his tummy rumbling away, and worried about upsetting his housekeeper by being tardy. Father Tom bustled through the back door, already apologising for being late, before the lock had a chance to snick closed.

“Gosh, so sorry, Jane. I got distracted,” he said, breathing in the wonderful aromas filling the kitchen, making his tummy redouble its noises. Jane was ironing his shirts in the corner of the kitchen and smiled a forgiving smile.
“Not to worry, Father, its only stew. I had plenty to be getting on with while I was waiting. Wash your hands and I'll dish it up,” she said unplugging the iron. 

Father Tom hung his jacket on the back of the door and went to scrub the drain grime from under his finger nails. On the way into the downstairs bathroom, he noticed a phone message lying on the hall table.

“When did Mr Kelly ring?” Father Tom called into the kitchen. Mr Kelly was the principle of the secondary school where Father Tom sometimes gave religion classes.
“Oh, I forgot about that, about an hour ago, Father.”
“Did he say what he wanted?”
“No, Father, just something about teachers, and chickenpox.”
“I better give him a call ,” said Father Tom, lifting the phone from is cradle.

Ten minutes later, Father Tom entered the kitchen scratching his fluffy black beard, and looking bemused.
“Is everything alright?” asked Jane.
“Yes, grand,” said Father Tom, sitting down at the table before a steaming bowl of stew.
“Does Mr Kelly need you to cover some classes?” asked Jane, as she filled her own bowl with stew and sat opposite Father Tom.
“Well, no, and yes,” he said cryptically, slurping a mouthful of meaty juice from his spoon. Jane cocked her eyebrows, Tom took another spoon full of broth, watching his housekeeper watch him, knowing she wouldn't look away until he told her more.

“He wanted me to supervise a school tour, if you must know. It seems, several of the students, and the teachers, have been stricken with chickenpox. He is short handed and suck for someone to go on the trip. As I am listed on the faculty, if even only occasionally, I am insured to help supervise the tour.”
 “And?”
“And, what?”
“And are you going?”
“No.”
“Why not, sounds like fun?”
“They're going to France,” said Father Tom, flatly. “For a week!”
“And you said no? Why in heavens did you say that? It’s not like its busy.”
“Managing a few teenagers for a few classes is one thing, being cooped up with them day and night for a week? I’m not sure I could cope.”
“Ah, Father. Of course you’d be grand. They're teenagers’ not wild animals.” 
It was Father Tom’s turn to throw a knowing look. Jane smiled, before say, “Never thought I'd see you being scared by anything, never mind a few spotty teenagers.”
“Fifth years, to be exact. Nearly men and women.”
“See, nothing to worry about. I'd jump at the chance to go Paris.”
“Lourdes.”
“Lourdes? They are hardly going to be wild kids, now are they? You love Lourdes.”
“I know, I nearly said yes when I heard that,” said Father Tom, dunking a chunk of bread into his stew. Jane said nothing more while they finished their meal. She knew Father Tom was running things over in his mind. He was like that, he needed time to think things through before he made a decision. When lunch was over and the washing up was done, she said,“You should go, Father. I’m sure Father Bobby would have no trouble covering the few services for you.”

Father Tom ruffled his beard and looked out the back window at the rolling hills behind the house. “Lourdes is wonderful this time of year, and it would be a shame if the tour was cancelled because they could not get a supervisor.”
“You can’t let the kids down,” Jane said.
“Blast it, I’ll go. I had better ring Mr Kelly and tell him,” said Father Tom, beaming.
“When are they leaving?” asked Jane, as Tom walked toward the hall.
“In the morning, first thing,” said Father Tom. As he picked up the phone he heard Jane say, “I’d better be getting on with the ironing, in that case.”

***

The next day, Father Tom was watching from the sitting room window, waiting for the bus to arrive. Jane fussed around him like a Mother getting a toddler ready for his first day at school.

“Are you sure you have your passport?” she called, as she rushed here and there, checking and rechecking his small bag for essentials.
“Right here,” said Father Tom, patting the breast pocket of his jacket.
“And your wallet?”
Father Tom reached behind him and rested a shovel sized hand on his right buttock. The old leather wallet was so well molded to his body, he often couldn’t tell if it was there or not. His fingers rested on the familiar bulge, “Got it!”

Jane appeared in the doorway with a hand full of underwear and socks, unzipping his small suitcase, and forced them inside. Being a priest, there's not much need for multiple combinations of clothing, it was one-size fits all, for him. Seven clean shirts, three undershirts, a dozen black socks, seven pairs of underwear, one spare pants and he was ready for the week ahead.

“I have enough of them already?” he said, seeing more y-fronts vanishing into the bag.
“You never know, Father, you can never have too much clean underwear. Do you have your phone?”

“I do, but I don’t know why? It’ll hardly work all the way over there.”
“They have roaming thing these days. It’s best to have it in case of emergencies,” said Jane, the sage.
“Like a sudden outbreak of silent surliness, or exploding acne?”
“Be serous, Father.”
“I am only going along to make up the numbers, Jane. There will be other teachers doing all that kind of thing. Mr Kelly said to think of it as a free holiday.”

“I know you too well too believe that for a second. If there is any trouble going, you’re sure to be smack bang in the middle of it,” said Jane, with an amused frown. Father 

Tom had to smile at that, because he knew she was right. All he ever wanted was a quiet existance, and to do the right thing, but life constantly seemed to have other ideas, at least it made his days interesting. At that moment, a fifty two seat coach appeared at the top of the road, and rocked its way slowly toward the front gate.

“The bus is here,” he shouted, and he heard Jane rushing around in the kitchen, banging things and talking to herself. Father Tom shrugged on his overcoat, and hefted his bag. As he walked into the hall, Jane came rushing at him, pushing a package, wrapped in grease-proof-paper, into his hand.
“A few cakes, for the journey,” she said, whooshing him out the door by flapping her tea-towel at him. 
Father Tom turned to give a small wave as the coach pulled up outside the gate. The door opened and Father Tom took his first step on the road to France. When his head cleared the handrail, he got his first glimpse of the students. He was expecting a rampaging horde of hormone riddled barbarians, minus the beards, but he was pleasantly surprised that the coach was serene and calm. Yes, there was a happy rumble of excited conversation, but nothing like the level of anarchy he had expected. Father Tom looked around for the teachers in charge. A young couple in the front seat smiled at him and said,” Welcome aboard, Father.”

“Thanks,” mumbled Father Tom still not sure whether they were students or faculty. They could be no more than nineteen or twenty, by the look of them. The girl reached out her hand to Father Tom and said, “Michelle Walsh, French teacher, and this is Damien O’Shea, woodwork,” she said,  both shaking Father Tom’s hand.

“Lovely to meet you both,” said Tom, with a huge smile, but still searching around for the more senior teachers. “Where are the rest of the teachers?” 
“Just us, I am afraid, Father,” said Mr O’Shea, with a shrug.
“Oh,” said Tom, a note of fear in his voice.
“Don’t worry, Father. There are only thirty students, and they are a fairly harmless bunch,” said Ms Walsh, with a reassuring smile. Father Tom smiled back at her, and took the seat beside them, resting his bag on the floor.  The driver of the bus got up and lifted Father Tom’s case,“I’ll throw that in the luggage compartment for you, Father.”
“Can’t it stay here for now?” asked Tom.
“No way, Father, health and safety regulations. That bag would be like a cannon ball, flying through the air, in the event of a crash, taking off heads and limbs as it goes,” said the driver, sternly, taking Father Tom’s bag to stow it in the luggage compartment under the bus. 

Soon they were on their way, the winding hedgerows of rural Ireland guiding them ever closer to the southern coast, and the ferry terminal. Father Tom was soon feeling right at home in the company of the young teachers, even if he wished they were a bit more numerous. After about an hour, Father Tom decided it was time to make the acquaintance of the teenagers. There had been an excited hum coming from the back of the bus since he'd got on. The noise was far from a ruckus, but it was slightly more energetic than he was used to. As Father Tom moved through the bus, he was greeted warmly and genuinely by all the teenage boys and girls, but as soon as he moved on there were muted giggles behind cupped hands. That was until he came across Duncan Mulholland. Duncan had a cherub face and an unruly mop of red hair, with a galaxy of freckles spanning his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. Duncan smiled beatifically up at Father Tom, and held out his hand. 

“Hi-yea Father, I hear you’re the man that saved the day,” the young lad said.
Father Tom laughed in embarrassment, “I would hardly say that.”
“Ah, come on, I heard we wouldn’t be going at all, if it wasn’t for you.”
 Father Tom felt the heat of pride flush his cheeks. “What's your name, may I ask?”
“Duncan, Father, but you can call me anything you like, so long as it is not too early in the morning,” said the cheeky ginger chappie in front of him. Father Tom had to admit, he was taken with young Duncan. 

After a few minutes of friendly banter, Father Tom moved to meet the rest of the kids. When Father Tom returned to his seat he said, “Well, there a lovely bunch of kids. Particularly that young lad, Duncan.” 

Father Tom was shocked at the stern looks that clouded the faces of both teachers.
“Duncan! Damien would be a better name for that little devil,” said Ms Walsh.
“But he was so charming.”
“Charming and psychotic. I’d not turn my back on that one, Father,” said Mr O’Shea, in a serous whisper. Father Tom smiled, thinking that the teachers were taking the micky out of him, but their faces were stony, which killed the smile on his lips.

“He can’t be that bad?”
“I nearly refused to come on the trip when I heard he was coming,” said Ms Walsh, and there was no trace of humour in her voice.
“Me too,” agreed Mrs O’Shea.
Father Tom sat back in his seat and wondered how a five foot tall, ginger teenager, could ever be as bad as these people were making out. The mystery didn't last long. 

About an hour before they reached Cork, a mini riot broke out in the back of the bus. Two well-muscled boys faced each other, with killer looks on their faces, while a gaggle of girls screamed encouragement, or just screamed. Mr O’Shea and Father Tom, raced down the bus, splitting up the warring factions, before any actual blows were struck. In the middle of it all, Duncan sat with self-satisfied smile on his face. It turned out, he had told one of the boys his girlfriend had been cheating on him with his best friend, the guy happened to be two seats behind them. The rest took care of itself.

“See, and we're not even out of the country,” said Mr O’Shea, as he sat in the back of the bus directly behind one of the agitated boys, while Father Tom moved up the bus, to keep any eye on the other guy and his crying girlfriend.  

So began the battle of France.

***
Like the end of the second world war, it all started with the landings at Calais. As it was an overnight crossing, the students were allocated bedrooms on board the rusting old ferry. Every last person on board was woken at ten to five in the morning by screaming emergency bells. It turned out, that six of the students had congregated in one room, gotten rotten drunk on vodka, and smoked upward of a hundred cigarettes between them. It was the fog of smoke in the cabin which set of the fire alarm.

The Cigarettes and booze for the party were supplied by the one and only, Duncan Mulholland. Unlike the others, he’d left long before things had gotten out of hand. The captain made an appearance to tear strips of Father Tom and the teachers. It was beyond humiliating.  That incident was closely followed by the siege of the Lourve. Father Tom rounded a corner to see Alan Clarke, standing on the plinth with the Venus De Milo, frozen in place by two semi-automatic assault rifles aimed directly at him, while he still cupped one of the cold marble breasts. It was a close run thing but they managed to keep young Clarke out of the clink. 

The next three days were hell on earth for Father Tom. He got nearly no sleep, constantly listening out for the sounds of a party, or a fight breaking out. They toured the Hennessey facility, along with a vineyard, both of which offered endless opportunities for trouble, which by some miracle, didn’t happen. In short, by the time the bus was on the motorway for Lourdes, Father Tom was a spent force, while Duncan Mulholland seemed to be only warming up.

It was late in the evening when they reached their hotel in Lourdes. By the time everyone had checked into their rooms and eaten dinner, they were fit for nothing but bed. The next morning, they attended Mass, and Father Tom led them on a tour of the shrine. He was in his element, he held the attention of the whole group, as he recounted the story of The Virgin Mary appearing to Bernadette. The fact that Bernadette was just fourteen made the whole thing resonate with the students. Father Tom was bombarded by questions. 

One girl mused “Her friends must have thought she was on drugs or something, when she started seeing magical women appearing out of nothing.”

A boy asked, “Did the church pay Bernadette when she became famous, the way Nike sponsors Rory Mcilroy?”

Another boy asked, “Why had Mary appeared to a farm girl, and not a priest or a nun?” Father Tom had no answer to that one, other than, “She must have had her reasons.”

 It was about then that they became aware of a growing knot of excitement people near the Holy Spring.  “It’s a miracle,” Father Tom heard a man say, as he rushed by them. Father Tom, and the whole group, rushed after him. People at the front of the crowd began dropping to their knees in prayer. That was when Father Tom saw Duncan Mulholland, standing beside an overturned wheelchair, his arms stretched toward the sky, giving loud and convincing thanks to Holy Mary for returning his legs and his sight to him. In his right hand, Duncan was holding a blind man’s white cane.
“You’re going to hell for this one, Mulholland,” growled Father Tom, as he pushed through the crowd, who were growing drunk on rapture.

“Put that down, and get away from there!” said Father Tom, when he was within shouting distance of Duncan.
“He’s been cured!” cried a woman who had tears running down her face.
“I only wish that was true,” sighed Tom, struggling through the edge of the crowd. His hand eventually fell on Duncan’s shoulder. “You’re in so much trouble,” snarled Father Tom. Now he had a hold on the ginger rapscallion, people in the crowd began to protest. Father Tom could feel the energy sizzle off them, this could be a dangerous situation for them both.

“He’s not cured, sorry about this everyone,” bellowed Father Tom, dragging Duncan after him by the scruff of the neck.

“Yes he was! I saw it with my own eyes. His chair was thrown sideways by the power of our Lord, and the boy stood up. He said, he'd never walked before in his life!” yelled a man, right at the front edge of the crowd.

“He was walking fine this morning when he ran down the stairs for breakfast,” said Father Tom, breaking through the ring of startled faces. Duncan and Father Tom both felt the mood of the crowd change. They feel foolish, deceived, and were getting enraged. One second, Father Tom was pulling Duncan along after him, the next, he was trying to keep up with the young lad, as he raced away from the mob.

“Come on Father before they lynch us!” yelled Duncan over his shoulder.

Once they were safely away, Father Tom turned the boy to face him, “How could you do that? You should be ashamed of yourself. This is a place of pilgrimage and you make a mockery of it, and of people’s faith.”

“Come on Father, it was just a joke.”

“You’re a fool, boy, and a user. I always try and see the good in people, but when I look at you, I can see nothing but misery and nastiness.” Duncan’s face morphed into a sneer, but Father Tom knew it was a mask. Tom rose up to his full height and let his fury burn in his eyes, the sneer slipped from the boy’s face like butter sliding from hot toast.

“I think you are a terrified little kid, hiding behind a fa├žade of bravado and thuggery, but here's the kicker. I can’t be bothered to go digging through all that muck to find a person I might like, neither will anyone else in their right mind. One day, you will realise that what you show the world, is what you will be, and by that time, it will be too late for you. Your only friends will be thick fools like you’ve been pretending to be, nobody decent will want you in their lives, not because of who you are, but who they THINK you are.” 

Tom watched Duncan’s face, his clever eyes darted here and there, as his mind whirred. There was no doubt, Duncan was extraordinarily clever, but clever like a weasel. He was about to say something but he clamped his mouth shut, and the sneer shuffled back onto his face. Father Tom, knew the boy wasn't ready to face the world, yet, and the world could do without this miscreant. Father Tom took the boys shoulder, and with a flick of his wrist, turned him one hundred and eighty degrees.

“March, boy!”

As Father Tom passed Mr O’Shea and Ms Walsh, he said, “Can you manage by yourself for the rest of the day?”
“Yes, but where are you taking him?”
“He’s confined to barracks for the rest of the trip, and someone has to guard him,” said Father Tom, moving the slowing boy along with the tip of his finger. The rest of the students started to laugh, and the reality of the situation struck Duncan, Tom saw it on his face, none of them liked him, not really.

***

The next morning, everyone boarded the coach. Duncan was put sitting alone in the very front seat. Ms Walsh and Mr O’Shea sat on the seat to his left, while Father Tom took the seat directly behind him. Twenty minutes later, they were on the motorway and heading north, for home. The energy level was far different from the one that filled the coach on the morning they'd left Ireland. The conversation level was muted, and the kids seemed at ease, even more mature, than they had a week before. The only dark cloud was hanging directly over Duncan Mulholland’s head.   

Father Tom yawned widely. He'd barely slept the night before, constantly checking on Duncan.

“Why not throw yourself down in the back seat for a while, Father. We can keep an eye on public enemy number one,” said Ms Walsh with a smile.

“I think I might take you up on that,” said Father Tom, and made his way down the back of the bus. A bench seat ran the full width of the coach. Within minutes, he was curled up into a ball, and snoring soundly. Father Tom was still asleep when the coach stopped at a service station for a quick half hour break. Mr O’Shea was going to wake Father Tom, but he looked so comfortable, he decided to leave him sleep. Everyone else got off the coach and went for something to eat in the huge service complex.

Father Tom woke about fifteen minutes later. He stretched and looked around. Father Tom went to the front, but the door was locked. Unfortunately, so was the door to the bathroom, and his bladder was screaming to be emptied. Father Tom returned to the back of the bus and tried the emergency door, which opened. He clambered down and slammed the door closed behind him. Father Tom went in search of a bathroom, just as the students appeared from an entrance a little further along the building.

About fifteen minutes later, Tom reappeared from the service station, Latte in one hand, chocolate muffin in the other. There was no sign of the bus, he retraced his steps, in case he had come out a different door. No, he ended back in the same spot. The coach should be right here. Tom franticly scanned the expansive parking area. There was no doubt about it, the coach was gone. Father Tom returned to the spot the coach should have been, doing circles on the spot, half eaten muffin in one hand, cold cup of milky coffee in the other.

“I’z all things OK?” enquired a sweet French voice behind him. Father Tom turned, feeling like a lost ten year old, and said, “They’ve gone without me.”

The girl was about twenty three, or four, years old. She had long straight blond hair, and her flawless skin was tanned to a rich chestnut colour. She wore a loose fitting t-shirt, which dripped off one shoulder, revealing an inch of collar bone under firm muscle. A pair shorts, made from cut-off jeans, sprouted a forest of white threads, dancing across the curve of her brown legs, and on her feet, she wore flip-flops.

“English?” she asked.

“Irish,” said Father Tom, unable to muster a smile. He'd been abandoned on the roadside, after all, in just the clothes he was standing in. The thought hit him like a hammer blow, and he dropped the muffin and coffee on the ground and began to search his pockets. Besides a handful of change, he had no wallet, and no phone. They were in his jacket, lying on the seat behind Duncan Mulholland. The only other thing he had on him, was his passport, which the man at the hotel reception had returned as he left the hotel. As luck would have it, his bag was already in the luggage compartment of the bus, so he had shoved it into the back pocket of his pants.

“I am sure zey will come back for you,” said the lovely girl, trying to console the clearly upset man.
“No. No they won’t. They think I am asleep in the back seat, or they wouldn’t have left. I’m stuck here,” said Tom starting to sulk a little.
“Were was ze bus going?”
“Ireland.”
“I mean, where was it going today? Ireland is too far to be getting in one day.”
“Oh! I see what you mean. I’m not sure, but it’s a town to the north of here.”
“How much had it been gone?” she said with a smile.
“Fifteen minutes, perhaps less,” said Father Tom.
“Come, we go north too. We will catch your bus,” she said, taking Father Tom’s hand and running with him toward a VW camper van parked close by.

“I don’t even know your name,” said Father Tom.
“Evelina, and you?” she asked. 
“Tom, Father Tom,” he said tapping his dog collar.
“Yez, I know this,” she said with a smile, and tapping her own throat. “I do not pick up strange men in parking spaces all the time.” 

When Evelina got to the camper, there were two other stunning girls, standing outside. Evelina spoke quickly, and excitedly, in French. Machine gun fast sentences spilled out, with lots of pointing at Tom, quickly followed by a cheer from the two other girls. Evelina pushed Tom toward the passenger door, while the other girls climbed in the back of the camper. “Hurry, Tom, we catch your bus!” laughed Evelina and she pulled out of the parking space in a squeal of tyre smoke and shrieks of delighted laughter from the back of the van.

Evelina kept her foot hard to the floor, but the needle only crept past one hundred and forty Kilometres when they were going downhill. As the minutes passed, and they slowly over took lorries and coaches, Tom craned his neck forward trying to spot his coach. Evelian introduced the other girls as Nadeen and Solange. They were best friends since school days, and they were all surfers. It happened they were on their way to La Rochelle for a party, then going to spend a week following the surf around the west coast of France. The motorway station they had just left was on the south side of Bordeaux, the girls all agreed Tom's bus was more than likely heading for Tours or Nantes, which are all fairly close to La Rochelle. They were sure they'd catch Tom’s coach before then, flag it down, and get Tom back aboard.

As the kilometres passed, their excited giggles became fewer, as the thrill of the chase began to wear thin. The girls asked Tom about Ireland, and said it was their hope to surf the Cliffs of Moher one day. After an hour and a half, Evelian eased up on the accelerator.

“We should have passed them by now, if they are still on the motorway,” said Evelian, sadly.
“Can you not call them?” asked Solange.
“No phone, and I don’t know the number for the teachers,” said Father Tom.“When we get to the next service station, I'll call home. They'll be able to get in touch with someone on the bus, to tell them where I am,” said Father Tom. "They can come back and pick me up from there."

“But you said you have no money, ez on the bus, yes?”
“I have a little money, enough to call my housekeeper in Ireland anyway,” said Father Tom.
“No, you stay with us. We stop, call your housekeeper to tell the bus we take you to La Rochelle, she tell the bus to come meet us there. Good idea?” asked Solange.
“Sounds like a plan to me,” said Father Tom with a smile. 

At the next service station they did just that. Tom explained what had happened to Jane and what the plan was. Jane said she would ring Mr Kelly to ring one of the teachers, to pick him up in La Rochcelle. Father Tom gave Jane, Solange’s mobile number.

They were back on the road about an hour when Evelian said, “Not much to go, Father Tom.” Just then Father Tom heard Solange’s phone ring in the back of the camper. He turned around to find himself staring at a topless, and nearly bottomless, Nadeen. 

“Holy God!” said Father Tom spinning around, his face as red as a beetroot. Behind him, the girls laughed. Solange leaned forward handing the phone to Tom, “It’s is your Jane, for you.” 

Tom took the phone, keeping his eye intently to the front, because Solange was only wearing a tiny bra on top, and nothing else.

“Father, what’s all the laughing about?” asked Jane.

“That’s hard to explain,” said Father Tom, which caused even more laughing from the girls. As they joked in French, he heard the word “Hard” giggled more than once, and went even redder. 

“Where is the bus, did you find out.”
“Yes, apparently they were more than half way to Nantes when they realised you were missing. They turned the bus around, and are actually back in Bordeaux now. The bus driver said he has to take his regulated eight hours rest, so can’t move the bus anymore tonight. The school has organised a hostel for them all to say at. The thing is, in the morning, they'll have to drive straight through, to get to the ferry on time. They said you will have to meet them at La Harve, or take a later ferry by yourself.”

“I have no money, Jane. My wallet is on the bus.”

“They told me. I'll make a money transfer to La Rochelle in the morning. You can get a train or a bus to La Harve then.”
“But what about tonight, I have nowhere to stay,” said Father Tom.
“You stay with us,” said Evelina, beside him.
“What was that?” asked Jane.
“The girls said I could stay with them.”
“That’s great,” said Jane.
“I can’t, you don’t understand, it’s a tiny van and they are… well, girls.”
“Holy God, Father. They will hardly bite you,” said Jane.
“We have a tent,” offered Evelina.
“You have? And you wouldn’t mind me using it?”
“You’re our Tom, we mind you,” said Evelina, with a smile.
“Looks like I am staying with the girls, will you ring in the morning with the transfer details?”
“Sure I will,” said Jane. “And, Father Tom?”
“Yes?”
“Behave,” she said, with a twinkle in her voice.
“Get a way out of it,” laughed Tom, and hung up the phone. He held it over his shoulder without looking back.

“It’s ok, Tom. We are good girls again,” giggled Nadeen. Solange took the phone and smiled at Tom. “Sorry, we were getting our party clothes on. Sorry about the…seins.”
“About the what?” asked Father Tom.
“Seins,” said Solange, searching for the word in English, then said, “Boobies,” grabbing her chest for emphases. Father Tom went beetroot again and everyone laughed.

“Surfer girls are not shy,” said Evelina, beside him. “Always running around beaches and car parks half naked, it’s natural, yes.”
“I guess so, but still a bit of a shock for the old system when ‘Seins’ appear, and you weren’t expecting them.” 

More laughing followed, and lots of teasing.

***
It didn't take long to reach the outskirts of La Rochelle. Evelina pulled the camper into a small woodland park, which had a picnic area, and said, “We will stay here for the night, our friend lives close by.”

“Father Tom set up his tent on a grassy area near the camper van, while Evelina got changed for the party, and the other girls prepared some coffee. Nadeen appeared at the opening of the tent with a sleeping bag and a pillow for Tom.

“This is for you, Mr Tom. Come, food is ready,” she said, with a dazzling smile. Father Tom followed her to a picnic table which was laid out with steaming coffee cups, crusty French bread, cheese and cold meats. Father Tom didn’t realise just how hungry he was, until he took the first bite. When the meal was over, Solange and Nadeen began clearing away the dishes.

“Leave that for me, I will do the clearing up, you head off to your party,” said Tom, getting to his feet.

“Yes, it’s party time! Said Nadeen, with a delighted squeal and a little hop in the air. In no time the dishes were done, and Father Tom walked toward his tent, while the girls locked the camper.
“Come, come,” said Evelina to Tom. Father Tom just looked at her. The three girls ran at him giggling, “No Tom, no party,” said Solange, and they crowded around him. How could he say no?

The party started out in a house where there were at least two dozen people gathered. Father Tom was welcomed like a long lost brother, and when the story of how the girls found him was told, he was elevated to the level of honoured guest. The table groaned under the weight of food, while bottles of wine seemed to come endlessly, and lively conversation rang through the house. Father Tom’s glass seemed to be perpetually full, and everyone wanted to hear more about his adventures across France.

About midnight, everyone piled into taxies, and were whisked away to a local night club. Tom pleaded to be let go back to the tent, but they would have none of it. The night club was dark, and the nose was tremendous, but Tom was having a whale of a time. It might have been the five or six glasses of wine, or perhaps it was the two ‘Jagerbombs’ he had downed, but the music was actually growing on him. Evelina, Solange and Nadeen were getting plenty of male attention but they refused to leave Tom alone. After a while, he noticed Nadeen slipping into a dark corner with a tall handsome young man that she had been dancing with, on and off, for the whole night. When the music eventually stopped, Nadeen was nowhere in sight.

Outside the night club, Solange hailed a taxi, but Father Tom said, “Shouldn’t we wait for Nadeen?”
“It could be a long wait, Father,” said Solange, with a knowing smile, and slipped into the back of the cab beside a tired looking Evelina. After a last look around, Father Tom slid in beside them.

Goodness knows what time it was when Tom woke, but it was still dark. He listened and could hear muffled voices. He couldn't understand what was being said, but something about the tone made him unzip the front of his tent. Close by, a black Citron had appeared during the night. It was moving up and down, as the people inside trashed around. The voices were coming from there, but they sounded strained, even angry. Tom decided to take a closer look. He stole up on the car, the front of which was empty, but there was a twisted knot of limbs in the back seat. It was hard to see in through the fogged up windows, so he got closer still.
“Non, non, non,” said a woman’s voice, and a girls arm struck out at the bare back of a man. It doesn’t matter the language, a man knows 'no' when he hears it. Tom walked over and slapped on the roof, “What’s going on in there?”

The snarling face belonging to the boy who had dance with Nadeen earlier, whipped over the naked shoulder and glared out the window. Over the man’s shoulder, Father Tom saw Nadeen, pinned and crying in his grip.

“Foutre fluage,” snarled the man.
Nadeen shouted, “Help, Mr Tom!” Then she began to struggle.

Tom yanked at the door handle, but it was locked. The man struck Nadeen in the face, stunning her, and tried to climb into the driver seat. Tom wasn’t going to let him get away. He pulled back his elbow and drove it into the window, smashing it into a thousand pieces. It hurt like hell, but that didn't matter. Tom flicked up the lock and yanked open the door. Tom grabbed the half naked young man by the leg, and hauled him out of the car, throwing the man across the paved car park. Tom dived into the backseat to help the dazed Nadeen. Father Tom heard Evelina call out behind him, “Look out!”

Tom turned just in time to see the blade come slicing toward his belly. Instinctively, he bowed his body backwards, away from the lethal looking blade. It sliced through shirt and flesh, Tom felt the sting of metal opening skin. The snarling man began a second slash, but Father Tom blocked the move with his left forearm. In the same instant, Tom’s balled fist exploded upwards, connecting perfectly with the French man’s jutting chin. Tom followed all the way through with his shoulder, snapping the man’s head so far over, that it disappeared behind his own back. The man didn’t stagger; he didn’t reel, he simply collapsed in a heap, out cold. Tom kicked the knife away toward the bushes, just as Evelina and Solange reached him. 

While Tom kept a watch over the guy on the ground, the girls helped Nadeen into the camper. Evelina rang the Gendarme. An hour later, the still wobbly man was being loaded into the back of a police car.

“What will happen?” asked Father Tom.
“Him, probably nothing,” said Evelina.
“What! How can that be? We saw him attacking her,” said Father Tom.
“Yes, and a whole night club saw her kissing him. It’s not fair, but it’s the way it is. Not all men are like you, Father, more the shame,” Evelina said, her eyes, lying hard on the man being taken away.

“Will Nadeen be alright?”

Evelina looked back at the camper where her friend was curled up under a duvet. “Yes, thanks to you. She is tough, that little one. She will not let him take life from her.” 

Evelina stood on her tippy toes and planted a gentle kiss on Father Tom’s cheek. “See you in the morning,” she said with a tear in her eye, and walked toward the camper. Tom sat outside for a long time, looking up at the stars through the swaying branches of the trees, wondering how God could forgive things like tonight, simply because he was asked. It was the darkest of nights, for Nadeen, and for Tom. Tom looked at the gaping rend in his shirt, and the thin red line across his belly. If he'd been an inch closer to that blade, he might have been able to ask God those questions in person. When he eventually felt tired enough to sleep, he’d made his peace with the Big Man Upstairs. After all, he didn’t have to understand God’s ways, just to believe those ways were just.

Tom was woken the next morning by the tent being unzipped. A young tanned arm pushed through holding a piping hot mug of coffee. “Time for up, Mr Tom,” said Nadeen. He crawled out of the tent, stretching his stiff back, before taking the cup she held. He looked her over and she seemed subdued but calm.

“Are you feeling alright?” he asked, taking a sip of his coffee.
“Not my best day, but alright, yes.”
Tom looked at where the Citron still stood, it’s broken back window a reminder of what had happened. 

“I think we should leave this place, and that thing behind, don’t you?” Father Tom asked, motioning at the car with his mug.
“Yes, this is what I have come to tell you. We are going,” said Nadeen, with a sad smile.
“It is best,” said Father Tom. I'll have the tent packed up for you in a few minutes.
“It’s not a rush, finish you’re coffee first,” she said, and smiled, then walked back to the camper. 

Ten minutes later Tom knocked on the side of the van, the packed tent under his arm, and the empty mug in his hand. The door slid open and three happy faces peered out. Tom handed in the tent and the mug before saying, “Thanks so much for everything, you have been wonderful. I will never forget meeting you all.”
“It is the same for us,” said Solange.
“Where will you go from here?” asked Tom.
“Not we, us. This is right, yes.” said Solange, smiling at the other girls, who broke out in huge smiles.
“Yes, us, is that way it will be. It is time for a trip of a life time, to make dreams come true,” said Evelina.

“Pardon? I don’t understand?” said Father Tom, scratching his head.
“We go to Ireland, and surf under the Cliff of Moher, and you come with us. We are taking you home, Father Tom,” cried Nadeen.
“Don’t be silly, there is no need…”
“We – I want to. You are my special hero, Mr Tom. Today is a day I can face, only because of you. It was God who sent your bus away, so that you could save me last night. It was a miracle just for me. Thanks to God, thanks to you,” said Nadeen, leaping out of the van and wrapping her arms around Father Tom’s huge neck. He felt the tiny track of her tears flowing down inside his collar, and knew, the Big Man, always had a plan.

“Enough of that, you will get me started,” said Tom, when he felt he might cry himself. “If you are sure you want to do this, you must stay with me for the week, while you explore the country. Is it a deal?”

The three girls looked at each other for a second and chorused “Deal!”

When Father Tom arrived back to the village riding in a VW camper van, with a quiver of surfboards strapped to the roof, and three stunning beauties at his elbow, it sent all the gossip's tongues into overdrive. The fact that he was wearing a tie-dye t-shirt, over board-shorts, didn’t do much to help the situation. When the three skimpily clad you women ran giggling up the path into the Father Tom’s house, and stayed there a full week, the rumour-mill nearly exploded.


Although the busybodies might be looking down their noses at Father Tom, and his carry on, down in the pub, Father Tom had been raised to legendary status. In fact, some smartarse even went as far as nailing a picture of Father Tom, right next to the photo of another legend with a reputation for the ladies. Move over JFK, Father Tom is in town.

Why not get all the Father Tom stories in one handy addition.
http://www.amazon.com/Misadventures-Father-Tom-Squid-McFinnigan-ebook/dp/B01AGW4PU2/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1458549953&sr=1-1&keywords=the+misadventures+of+father+tom

Friday, 6 November 2015

Keeping up with the Joneses

Donnie and Adam are twins, born in the rolling hills of rural Wales. You would expect two boys, born in such an idyllic setting, to grow up pleasant and well balanced, but you'd be wrong. Their father was a bigoted, hate filled, sack of pus. Every hardship, real or imagined was blamed on whatever racial stereotype happened to jump into his mind first. I'm not even sure he can be actually called a racist, because he hated most of the native population of Wales with just as much venom: the smart, the educated, the wealthy, the powerful, the police, the teachers, the social welfare people, the health care people, all apparently had it in for Mr Jones.

Hardly surprising that he upped sticks and left such a den of vipers, choosing to move to the much more carefree environs of Ireland, dragging his wife and twin toddlers with him. It wasn't long before he recognised his mistake. If anything, Irish employers, and social establishment, were even less understanding of his lazy attitude toward work. Mr Jones was fired from every job he managed to get, within days. The years passed and Mr Jones accepted his forced retirement, content to pass on his particular view of the world to his lucky sons.

Donnie and Adam, as it transpired, inherited their father’s nasty manner and aptitude for laziness. By the time they were sixteen, they were out of school, and running-a-muck on the streets they called home. When not spitting abuse at anyone that caught their eye, they were getting drunk or doing drugs in an abandoned house they called home. Dole money didn't go far, not when you have an expensive lifestyle of drink and drugs to account for. Naturally, they never considered working for the money, when they could just take it. If a break-in happened within twenty miles of the Jones's shack, the police knew just where to go. 

One particular evening, Donnie and Adam turned their attention on a neat little, end of terrace house, in an old part of the town, No fancy lock-picking for these boys, they just rammed a crowbar in the front door and ripped the lock from its housing. Inside a small Jack Russell began barking wildly. Donnie pinned it into a corner and began kicking the poor little thing savagely. By some miracle, it managed to dodge to freedom and race out the front door, howling in terror. Inside, the house was as neat as a pin, the two brothers ripped it apart, smashing whatever came to hand not worth nicking. To their rage filled indignation, there was nearly nothing worth stealing in the whole place, except for the flat screen TV.

"Nothing but worthless shite!" screamed Donnie, smashing photos and ripping apart furniture, looking for hidden cash.

"Come on, let’s grab the TV and go," said Adam from the sitting room. Donnie went in and took one corner of the set, still fuming at the audacity of the owner for having nothing valuable in the house.

They were in the hall when Donnie said, "Hang on a minute," and put down his end of the set and ran back into the sitting room.

"What the fuck are you doing," asked Adam, following him. When he looked in the door he was greeted by a vision of Donnie, squatting in the middle of the sitting room, squeezing out a runny crap, all over the carpet.

"Serves them bloody right," snarled Donnie, hitching up his trousers and leaving his present behind. They loaded the TV into their van, and left.

***

An hour later, a tall middle aged man stood before the ruined door, the key held in his rock steady hand. For a moment he did nothing, just listened, then he quietly pushed the door open with his fingertips. He slipped into the hall noiselessly, he moved through the house keeping close to the wall, he ducked his head around each door, making sure the house was empty before he eventually called out,"Jessy." 

He listened but heard nothing.

"Jessy, here girl," he said louder, whistling this time. Still nothing. The man went from room to room calling the name "Jessy" all the time. He stopped in the sitting room, staring down at the stinking pile of human waste in the middle of the floor, before walking from the house. For hours, the streets rang out with that name, called over and over again, "Jessy."

***

Two days later, Donnie and Adam were in the middle of the town going to score some hash, when Adam became aware of a tall man standing across the road, glaring directly at them. He was about six foot one, fit, but not big. He had a neatly trimmed beard and his grey hair was buzz cut. Adam locked the van and looked over at the guy again. He was still staring at them.

"What the fuck you looking at, Queer?" shouted Adam. The man didn't flinch or look away, just kept staring right at him.

"What the FUCK!" said Adam, raising his hands, the universal sign inviting a fight but Donnie was itching to score, so pulled him away.

"Asshole FAGGOT!" screamed Adam, over his shoulder as he left. The man never moved an inch. When the boys got back to the van, they found it sitting on all four rims, all the tyres having been slashed. After ten minutes of cursing, kicking and shouting they had no choice but to walk back to the squat.   The evening was getting dark and they didn't notice the tall man tailing them expertly.

After that night, whatever luck the Jones' brothers had, it ran out. Unexplained things started to happen. One night all the clothes hanging on their washing line were soaked in petrol and set on fire. A few days later, the front window of the house was smashed in and a sack full of rats were dumped inside, dozens of the stinking things. Every other night the tyres on the van were slashed or the windows were broken, and that was only the beginning.  They returned to the squat one evening to find both their beds soaked in gallons of blood. 

The following night, Donnie went missing. Adam didn't think too much of it, but by three in the morning, there was still no answer on Donnie's phone. Adam started calling all of their friends but nobody had seen him. Donnie was found early the next morning, beaten, naked, and handcuffed to a building site fence near the middle of town.

Adam raced to the hospital, where he found Donnie being treated in A&E.

"Who did this to you?" he demanded, even before he asked if Donnie was hurt.

"That tall, queer fella from town, remember last week," said Donnie.

"Jesus, did he..." said Adam, nodding towards Donnie's crotch.

"NO! Well, I don't think so. I can't remember much. He came up behind me when I was walking home and jabbed a needle in my neck. I remember his face but after that, not much."

"He must have said something," said Adam.

"Yea, he did. He said he wants his TV back."

"What!"

"I know, but that's what he said."

***

Adam walked out the hospital exit and was amazed to see, that very same tall man, standing in the middle of the car park, staring at the A&E door.

"You must have a death wish!" yelled Adam, and ran at the man. The tall guy stood there, as cool as a breeze, watching a snarling Adam rush toward him. When he was a few feet away, Adam launched himself into the air, his foot aimed straight at the man's chest, he still hadn't moved, he even had his hands in his pockets. It was a complete mystery to Adam how, but he seemed to stop in mid-air, flip upside down and be rammed head first into the hard tarmac. All around him the world swam, and his ears buzzed. Two punches crashed into his jaw, and he felt something crack in the side of his face. Pain shot through him but his scream came out garbled. The tall man flipped him onto his back and leaned over Adam. The man's eyes were as dead as lumps of coal, he looked spaced-out.

"You took my TV, I want it back," said the man quietly.

"I have no idea…" mumbled Adam, but the man didn't wait for the end of the sentence. He moved with lightning speed and fresh pain raced up Adam's arm and into his brain.

"JESUS!"

The man held up Adam's severed little finger, so he could see it, and the blood soaked garden shears he had used to amputate it in the middle of a hospital car park. "I'm going to take one a week until I get my TV back." The man dropped the finger on Adams chest, straightened up, walking casually away.

***

When the boys got out of hospital, and the police stopped laughing at them, five full days had passed. Adam was sure the guy must live in the little terrace house they had knocked over, because it was the only one they had taken a TV from in nearly two months, jewellery and cash were much easier to hide and sell. Donnie went to find out who the guy was, but when he came back, the news wasn't good.

"He's only a bloody Ranger!" said Donnie.

"Like special forces Ranger?" asked Adam.

"Yea but worse. He's a Ranger who was sent home for being off his rocker. That was his mother’s house we knocked over, but she's dead now," said Donnie.

"Since the break in!" yelled Adam, understanding why the guy was trying to kill them, if they had accidentally knocked off his Ma with the shock of finding the house done over.

"Na, years ago, it was just him living there," said Donnie. They both said nothing for a long time, each of them running things over and over, looking for a way out of this.

"Let's get the fuck out of here," said Adam at last.

"Good idea," said Donnie, jumping to his feet. Ten minutes later, their van was a speeding blip on the edge of town.


They crashed at a friend’s place in Limerick for a few nights, until, in the middle of the night, a scream tore through the house. Adam rushed into the sitting room, throwing on the light, to find the tall Ranger with a knife to Donnie's neck, and the place covered in blood. Adams mate came running down the stairs but as soon as he got a look in the sitting room, he ran straight back up again.

"Week is up," said the man, throwing Donnie's little finger across the room.

"Look, just tell us what you want," said Adam, feeling his bladder come dangerously close to letting go.

"I want my TV. I've told you that already," said the man in an ice cold voice.

"All right, all right. I'll get you a bloody TV, just take that knife from his throat," said Adam holding out his hands toward his brother.

"I said, I want my TV, not a TV. I want the one you took, and I want it brought back to my house before this day next week," said the man, as calmly as he would if he were ordering a salad.

"Yea! No Problem! Just let him go, please," said Adam, his eyes beginning to mist over. Just like that the man let his brother go, and walked out the front door and was gone. In the distance, sirens were just starting to grow, Adam's friend must have called the cops from upstairs.

In the end, Adam and Donnie told the coppers nothing. Just said it was a stupid accident. They knew this Ranger was nuts, and there was no way the police were going to stop him, if he decided he wanted to get one, or both of them. The only option was to do what he asked.

***

The next Friday, Adam and Donnie turned up at the little terrace house with the stolen TV held between them. The door opened before they had a chance to knock, and the tall man stepped to one side allowing them to bring in the set. The house was back to the neat way it had been but some items were missing, broken beyond repair. The twins put the TV on the counter and turned to face the man.

"Plug it in please," he asked, politely. Donnie plugged in the TV and turned it on, as Adam kept a close eye on the mad bastard. Once he had flicked through the channels, the man turned the TV off, and smiled at Adam.

"That's it, we're done so?" Adam asked.

"I want my dog," the man said, his eyes dead.

"I don't have your dog!" yelled Adam, not believing it was starting all over again.

"I want my dog."

"Seriously, we haven't got it!"

"Her."

"We haven't got her, she ran out the door and was gone. If we had her, we would give her back. I swear! You can cut off all my fingers, cut our throat's, but we can't give you what we haven't got." said Adam. From the corner of his eye, he could see Donnie start to shake, this was going very bad, they never should have come inside the house. The tall guy walked over and shut the sitting room door standing between it and any hope they had of freedom, of life.

"Ah, Jesus. Please," cried Adam, tears starting to come. The man just shook his head and started to advance on them. They both backed up until they felt the wall behind them.

"We will do anything else, just name it, anything. Please," blubbed Donnie. The man stopped and looked at them for a second, his crazy mind running behind his dead eyes.

Okay, give me justice so," said the man.

"Sure, no problem. You want us to confess to the break in, we will do it right now, over the phone so you can listen if you like." said Adam, the prospect of a few months behind bars was nothing compared to having fingers sliced off.

"Not that. Twelve lashes each, in the town square. Tomorrow, midday," said the guy, his eyes gleaming.

"Twelve lashes?"

"Yea, on the bare back. Deal or no deal?" asked the guy.

"With what?" asked Donnie.

"Don't worry about that, I will bring the lash. Is it a deal?

"Deal, deal," said Adam, just wanting to get out of the house

***

The next day, just after mid-day the twins edged into the town square. In the middle of it stood the raised statue of a mounted soldier, surrounded by a tall metal rail.

"Take off your tee-shirts," the man said, when the twins stood in front of him. They did as they were told, attracting lots of looks from the passing shoppers.

"Grab on to the rail, this is going to sting a bit," the Ranger said to Adam, with a smile. Adam turned around and gripped the metal bars. From under his coat, the Ranger removed a short leather whip, which split into a nine braided tails, each tipped with a tiny metal orb. He threw the whip at Donnie's feet and said, "Twelve of the best, please."

"Me?"

The man said nothing. Donnie picked up the whip and looked at his brother's bare back. Realising that it was Donnie going to use the lash, Adam relaxed a bit. 

The first blow was savage and drew blood, Adam screamed, and everyone in the square stopped in their tracks, but Donnie drew his hand back and let fly once more. Blow after blow fell, each more severe than the last, Donnie's natural evil, rising to the surface. After twelve, Adam dropped away from the fence, his back in ribbons, his face contorted in rage and pain.

"Now you," said the tall man to Donnie, indicating the fence. As soon as Donnie's fists closed around the metal bars, Adam grabbed the whip and went to town on his brother. Adam quickly reached twelve and was about to issue number thirteen when the tall man said, "That is enough."

Adam dropped the whip, panting. Donnie fell to the ground, moaning, and the tall man walked up until he was inches from Adam's face. He bent, and picked up the lash, and said, "Now, find my dog."

The tall man walked away, having to push his way through the gathered onlookers. Behind him the Ranger heard Adam scream in frustration, and he smiled for the first time.

Sunday, 1 November 2015

Honeysuckle Lane - Chapter 3


Chapter 3


“You don’t look happy to see me, why is that,” said Harry walking up the driveway. Frank felt his bowels go a little liquidly. All of a sudden he felt light headed and sick.

“I was coming to meet you Harry honest I was,” Frank said.

“I must not have been clear enough the last time we talked. I was sure I said pay something every week or I was coming to collect. Guess what Frank, I am here to collect,” Harry said stopping close to Frank pushing his hands in his pockets. He looked around like he was a bit bored.

“I don’t have it yet” Frank said.

“You have something though,” Harry said matter-of-factly. Frank dipped into his back pocket taking out his wallet. Harry shook his head “Not here where the world and his dog can see, get in the car.” Frank clicked the key making the car chirp and flash. Harry walked round the passenger side and got in. Frank took a few moments to get his lies straight in his head before doing the same.

“You must take me for a right mug Frank. Did you think you were the invisible man or what. I could have been here last Monday you fuckwit,” snarled Harry.

“I swear to god if I had the money I would have paid you off already. I’m broke, flat busted,” reasoned Frank.

“I couldn’t give a shit. You borrowed money from me, you gambled that money and you lost that money,” each ‘you’ was hammered home with a steely tone. Frank knew it was true but what could he do about it.

“Look Harry you got your money back and more, you’re not out a penny. I can’t pay you what I don’t have,” Frank said. Harry shook his head and opened the glove box rummaging through the insurance papers and cd’s like he was shopping.

“You are going to pay Frank and that is a fact. It might take a year, ten years, your whole fucking life but I will get what is due to me. If you even think about doing anything stupid like going to the cops or god forbid legging it, then your family will pay” Harry said with menace.

“Don’t you ever go near my family” shouted Frank grabbing the front of Harrys jacket. Harry didn’t bat an eyelid. He eyed the fist which was bunching up the leather of his coat. He kept looking at it until Frank released his grip.

“Open your wallet Frank” he said calmly. Frank did and held it out. Harry took out the notes and counted €250 and looked disappointed. “Have you got more in the house?”

“No. Take this, there is a grand credit on it,” Frank said holding out the credit card. Harry laughed and refused the card with a wave of his hand.

“You must be joking. Before you know it that would be reported stolen and me nicked for using it, what do you take me for. Cash only Frank,” Harry said. He waved the little fold of notes in Franks face “This is for my time coming to find you out here in the fucking sticks. Next Friday Frank I expect you at the pub by six. Have €3456 euro with you and you will never have to see me again.”

“I thought it was €2800,” said Frank.

“Interest on interest Frank, it adds up,” said Harry stuffing the notes inside his jacket pocket. He opened the door and walked around to Franks side. Harry opened the driver’s door and leaned against the car like they were the best of friends. Harry noticed a young woman walking down the foot path towards them. She spotted Harry ogling her just as she came level with the back of the car, she gave him a filthy look and flipped him the finger. The saucy cow. She was fine looking thing with lovely perky tits. Harry wouldn’t mind bumping into her when she was a bit pissed. He watched the sexy bounce of her ass giggle its way down the road and into a house near the end of the row.
“Nice neighbours you got Frank,” Harry said. He turned his eyes away from the young girl to Frank. His face morphed into a mask of hate. “Don’t you ever put you’re fucking hand on me again,” spat Harry. “Grab the fucking door frame.”

“What?” said Frank.

“Take your hand and hold of the roof of the car,” Harry said slowly, deliberately. Frank tentatively reached up and wrapped his fingers around the edge door frame. Harry stood back “Next Friday Frank, don’t be late,” he slammed the door hard crushing Franks fingers.


Harry walked towards his car, muffled cries of agony ringing in his ears. He did not give a damn about Frank or if his fucking fingers dropped off. Harry knew his message had been received. He got behind the wheel of the black BMW. Harry could not get over the little bitch down the road, she had actually flipped him the finger, she must have balls of steel or at least a pussy of gold. He started the car and drove off without even a backward glance.

Next Part : http://squidmcfinnigan.blogspot.ie/2014/02/honeysuckle-lane-chapter-4.html

Just Chill, for God's Sake.

Is it only me, or has anyone else seen noticed how aggressive the average guy (and gal) is getting, over the most ridiculous things.

For example, during mid-evening traffic the other night, a guy with a car full of kids over took a standing line of traffic, to get onto a jammed round-about. The car he was driving was at least ten years old and showed the scars of past scrapes. The guy dived towards a gap that was far too small for him to fit through, and came up short, as the gap was deliberately closed by a gold Volvo.

Now, I watched the over-taker coming up in my wing mirror, and I have to admit, the guy was driving like a complete nob. Instead of letting his arrogance annoy me, I shrugged it off, he might have had a sick kid in the car, or some other emergency. Anyway, I sat there and watched as the old red car tried to move into the space that was too small, the gold Volvo inched the gap closed a bit more. Finally the red car forced his way through and the Volvo let fly with a salvo on his horn. 

This is where things got baffling, the red car, in such a frantic hurry seconds ago, braked, and backed up! Go figure? Anyway, the window came down, and about a minute of abuse was yelled in the general direction of the gold Volvo, before a finger was flipped and the battered red car screamed away, wobbling on balding tyres. 


Road rage is one thing, but what about pizza rage?

The other night I witnessed a group of middle aged men and women, sitting drinking in a hotel bar. One woman picked up her phone and ordered a Domino's pizza to be delivered. When it arrived, a member of staff told the woman that takeaway food couldn't be consumed in the public areas of the hotel, who by the way were serving food in that area. The woman, and whole group, exploded in righteous indignation, yelling that they had every right to eat what they wanted anywhere they wanted. Instead of eating the Pizza in their room and returning to the bar, they angrily sat there, watching it go cold and trying to sneak pieces when they thought nobody was looking. 

Just two examples out of thousands that I have witnessed. 

Now, I'm the first to tell you that I'll argue for my rights, but is my whim, my right? Are bad manners taking over the world, or are these people just the tiny vocal minority? What do you think? Have you an example, or a story you'd like to share? I would love to hear it.

Squid