'For dis relief, much tanks, Horatio,' said Milligan, posturing and laughing hysterically.
Chapter Eight
Gulio Caesar presents The World's Finest Animal Circus. The words were painted six foot high in modest black and white.
Circus master Gulio Caesar, ' King of the Ring', was a worried man. Constantly at war with fleas that continually transferred their allegiance from the monkeys to him, he slept with a tin of Keatings by his bed. At midnight he awoke scratching and cussing, when through his caravan window he made the awful discovery. The cage was open and the beast had gone.
Scratching with one hand and dialling with the other, he phoned the r.s.p.c.a.
Awakening from his veterinary slumbers, Inspector Felix Wretch groped in the dark for the jangling instrument.
'Hello?'
' This is a - Gulio Caesar, could I please spik wid your husband ?'
'Me husband speaking,' said Mr Wretch.
'Gooda, one of my black-a panthers has escape.'
Mr Wretch gulped himself into consciousness. 'I'll meet you outside the police station right away in ten minutes.'
'Right,' the line clicked to immutability.
Hurriedly Mr Wretch pocketed a humane killer, a phial of liquid and a hypodermic, then stepped into his trousers and into the night.
Into the wood along the river bank stumbled five happy drunks.
Suddenly Rafferty stopped.
'Shhh, there's something in me trap,' he said excitedly.
The information silenced the singing. Cautiously they approached towards a black sleek shape crouching on the ground.
' It's a-' commenced Rafferty, but was cut short by a scarlet mouth emitting an unusually loud growl. 'No, it isn't,' he concluded.
'It isn't what?' queried O'Brien.
' It isn't what I thought it was at first.'
'Oh?'
'It should,' went on Rafferty, peering at the creature, 'it should be a fox.' The creature repeated a growl loud enough to stop the five in their tracks. What it was they knew not, that it was very big they knew, but what type of big they also knew not.
' I don't tink it's a goat,' Milligan said.
'You're right,' agreed Dr Goldstein. 'It's the wrong noise for a goat, if it was a goat it would go - ' (he drew a big breath) ' - baaaaaaaaaaa, ba-aa a a a aaaaa aa .' 'For God's sake keep quiet, Doctor,' said Rafferty, who for the first time in his poaching life was puzzled.
'bbbbbbbbbbbbbaaaaaaaaaaa!' continued Goldstein. Kneeling on all fours he charged O'Brien's unsuspecting seat.
'What in h - ' O'Brien started to say as he fell forward. There was an inky black pause and a great splash. 'You bloody Jewish idiot!' said O'Brien, wallowing-groping-stumbling-falling in the shallow river waters. ' Gis yer hand,' said O'Mara pulling the soggy O'Brien to the bank.
'Feel if dere's any fish in his pockets,' said the Milligan holding his stomach with laughter.
' Shhhhhhhhhhhh!' said Rafferty.
'I'll get you for dis, Goldstein,' said O'Brien. They were all silenced by a low, almost evil, snarl from the beast. Rafferty took a coil of rope from his sack.' Here, little animal,' he said advancing cautiously. The reply was a stomach-loosening roar.
Rafferty stopped uneasily and walked back to the arguing, singing group. 'A thought just struck me,' said Rafferty. 'Is dere any wild wolves left in Ireland ?'
'Now I think I can answer that,' said Goldstein, ' Will someone strike a light ?'
Milligan struck a match as the doctor read from a small pocket encyclopaedia, unsteadily flicking the pages.
' Ahhhhh!' he said.' Listen, dere are no wild wolves left in Ireland.
The last one was killed in 1785 in MacGillikudie's Reeks by a German naturalist called Herman Von Loon. Oh,' he read on, 'here's another bit of interesting data. In 1794 a black man called Talmadge Frock crossed Ireland on a wooden roller skate and died of leg cramps. He . . .'
Darkness followed a yell as the match burnt Milligan's finger.
'What about gettin' this animal, I'm gettin' cold,' O'Brien said.
Rafferty beckoned them all towards the beast. 'I'll get this noose over his neck, den everyone take one leg each.'
They advanced unsteadily. ' Puss, puss, puss,' said the Milligan, holding out his hand.
'You're right, Milligan, it's a cat, a black cat. Gad, he's had a good feed, look at the size of him.'
The animal sprang, uprooting the trap, hitting O'Mara in the chest. O'Mara the giant got to his feet.
'No bloody pussy-cat's going to do that to me.' He lashed out, struck the animal a pole-axe blow, and the panther sank into unconsciousness.
The five split up. O'Mara paused only once on the way, to throw a struggling panther into the charge room of the police station.
There followed a series of ripping, growls and screams, then came a shattering of glass as the night constable dived through the window and ran up the road.
Two little men with the arse out of their trousers were holding a mass meeting. They had both known better days but not partaken in them. They were forced to admit that the glorious days of the i.r.a. were in decline.
'Comrades,' said Shamus Ford, addressing his partner from a chair, ' I have good tidings. This new Customs Post at Puckoon is a boon and a blessing to men. I have a plan, such a plan as Brian Boru would be glad to be associated in.'
Looking at him, adoringly, was the sad, middle-aged, unshaven little face of the faithful follower, Lenny Braddock. He scratched himself furiously, at the same time giving off a few supporting
'Hear hears'. Shamus banged his mittened hands across his body. The deserted barn was draughty, dirty, and dungy, but rent free. Shamus went on with great fire:
' To bury the stiffs dese days, they'se got to takes 'em through dat new Customs Post, it's a gift from heaven, don't you see?'
'No, I don't see, Shamus.'
'Pay attention den, gi's a puff on yer fag . . . ta . . . Our contacts on the other side says they're short of explosives. Right?'
'Ifyousayso. . .'
' I do. Now normally, without the convenience of a coffin, you'd have yer luggage searched and yer pockets.'
'That's true, that's true .. . can I have me fag back?'
'Now. If we could get a coffin and rig up a phony burial, we could carry enough gelignite stuff in dat coffin to blow Ulster back into the Republic - you see?'
' Gor! By gor! Dat is a fine plan boyo! A fine plan! I tink this is a turning point in the history of Ireland. Can I have me fag back ?'
'Wot we need is a coffin - don't snatch like that.'
'Me fag-'
'A coffin! Now, dere's a mortician in Delarose Street . . . you got them counterfeit pound notes? Good.'
' Can I have me fag back ?'
' Of course, we got to make the plan watertight.' Shamus reclined back on his straw throne.
'Tomorrow I'll make arrangements fer der coffin.'
Suddenly, it was tomorrow. 'God, doesn't time f l y ? ' said Shamus.
A recently lacerated constable with a finely shredded seat to his trousers addressed Mr Gulio Caesar. ' Have you lost a black panther, sir ?'
' Yes, I have - she's-a-gone. Disastro!'
' I think I have made contact with the animal.'
The constable described his flight from fur-covered death. 'The animal is lurking in the wood a mile south of the church of St Theresa.'
'Mama mia! My porra panther - me and Mr Wretch will get there at a-once.'
'At once,' repeated Mr Wretch, loading his hypodermic.
They set off with a horse-drawn cage and a plentiful supply of drugged meat. It was dangerous for a panther to wander alone in Ireland. Once in paleolithic ages great dinatrons roamed the Celtic swamps. They had become extinct not of evolutionary process; there were O'Maras alive in those times, too.
In six months from recruitment, Ah Pong had picked up an amount of the language and could write a report on simple Irish crimes - murder, rape, etc. Kitted out in blue
, he was given a warrant and entrained to Puckoon. Appearing at the door of Puckoon Police Station, he was arrested on sight.
'Constable Oaf, you've been drinking,' MacGillikudie had accused him.
'Me not Constable Oaf,' said the little Chinese.
' Then I arrest you for-for-you!' The accompanying letter was hard to believe. From the Commissioner of Police? He must be off his nut! A Chinese policeman in exchange for Oaf? ' I don't suppose it's a bad swop,' he reflected.
He found Ah Pong a very willing worker, and therefore gave him the lot. Clever people these Chinese. Sax Rohmer had said so, he should know, he was one of them. He kept Ah Pong on night duty. He explained his reasons. 'Got to break it to the people gentlemanlike,' that and the other reason, a hungry panther loose.
The world had so many Chinese they wouldn't miss this one.
Passing the station one day, Rafferty had dropped in to see if there were any warrants out for his arrest. He entered. Ah Pong had his back to the door.
'Good morning, Sarge,' said Rafferty cheerfully.
Ah Pong turned.' Please ? 'he said. The little Chinaman advanced towards Rafferty.
'Don't come near me MacGillikudie, I don't want to catch it.'
'Please, what-is-trouble?' said Ah Pong.
I was right, thought Rafferty, dat was a Chinee I saw the other night.
' Where's Sergeant MacGillikudie ?' he asked.
'Sergeant asleep.'
'Does he know you're wearing his uniform?' 'Please understand, I real police, my name Ah Pong.'
He held out his hand and shook Rafferty's. ' You're a real polis ?'
No
'Look.' Ah Pong put on his helmet, pointed one finger in the air, and blew his whistle.' See ?'
Rafferty paused, his lips pursed. His face took on a cunning look.
' Do you know the meaning of the word poacher ?'
' Sorry, me no understand.'
Rafferty's face burst into a smile. ' Me and you is going to get on real fine.' He shook the smiling Chinaman's hand and departed.
Ah Pong opened a Chinese-English dictionary and ran his finger down the Ps, p-o-a-g-h-e-r. Ahhhh!
He made a swift note in Pekinese. Soon Rafferty was to know the meaning of the word 'inscrutable'.
Chapter Nine
Life is a long agonized illness only curable by death. Ruben Croucher lovingly and delicately dusted the coffins displayed in his parlour. They were such beautiful things. Stately barques that bore us across the Styx into the eternal life beyond. All was peace and calm within. The only sound was the endless buzzing of a lone fly, who shall remain nameless. Ruben Croucher walked with crane-like dignity across the black cracking lino to the window. His long thin nose pointed the way; a million rivers of tiny ruptured veins suffused his cadaverous face, two watery eyes like fresh cracked eggs in lard looked out from a skulllike head. It had got dark early and he had lit the gas, which cast a sepulchral glow along the neatly arranged coffins. With a cloth he wiped the condensation from the sightless windows. Business was bad, it seemed people couldn't afford to die these days. But, what was this ?
Two ragged-arsed men were approaching, both smoking the same cigarette. They were pulling a cart and heading rapidly for the shop. Pausing only to open the door, they entered. When Lenny saw the face of Mr Croucher, he reverently took his hat off.
Croucher bowed ever so slightly from the waist up.
'Good morning,' he said, then after some thought added, '
Gentlemen.' After all they could be eccentric millionaires.
Shamus coughed. 'We are eccentric millionaires,' he said.' Do you sell coffins ?'
Mr Croucher nodded. 'Yes, we do, sir,' and as a try on, 'how many do you want ?'
'Oh, just one to start with.'
'Good, good. Who is the deceased?'
'Oh.' Shamus hadn't thought of this, but he was a man of some guile. ' It's for me friend here,' and he pointed at Lenny. 'You see,' he went on, 'he hasn't been well lately, and we thought just to be on the safe side we'd have one now.' Mr Croucher, though puzzled, pressed on. 'Ahem. Well, I suppose this method will save normal post mortem mensuration.'
'Eh?'
' Measuring him. Now he can - well - try one for size.' Mr Croucher indicated the coffins. Shamus and Lenny ran their hands over several. ' We'll have that one.' Shamus pointed.
'Ah, a black one. A very wise choice, sir, it won't show the dirt.' Mr Croucher withheld a whimper of joy. It was the most expensive coffin in the shop.
Lenny slid over the side and lay back in the pink satin padding.
'It feels real fine!' he said. 'Dis is really worth dying for.' He squirmed to make himself more comfortable.
'Now let's try the lid on,' said Mr Croucher.
Carefully he lowered the lid over Lenny's little white face.
Shamus raised his voice.
' How's dat feel, Lenny ?'
'Very nice,' came the muffled reply.
" 3
'Right,' said Shamus addressing Mr Croucher. ' We'll have this one.'
Ruben rubbed his hands with professional pleasure, the dry skin crackling like parchment. Forty years he had sold coffins, but never as quickly as this. His father, the late Hercules Croucher, o.b.e., had founded a fine parlour at Shoreditch. King Edward the Seventh and his ten mistresses were on the throne when the young Ruben was given a black suit for his tenth birthday, that and a scale model replica of the famous Geinsweil Coffin. It awakened in him some deep-rooted instinct; he buried it. Other boys felt girls and played conkers, but little Ruben watched local workmen digging, digging, digging.
'Now sir,' Ruben said, 'if you will step into the office we'll conclude the financial side.'
'You stay there a while,' said Shamus rapping on Lenny's coffin.
In a small room at the back Mr Croucher slid behind an order book and perched on a fountain pen. His black tail coat hung from his shoulders like tired wings. Neatly he took down details in his book. All was silent save the scritch-scratch of his Waverley nib on ruled foolscap.
A great pot of steaming hot Irish stew was heading for the shop at seven miles an hour. It was carried lovingly in the hands of Mrs Ruben Croucher, ex-shot-put champion of Ireland. She walked with a brisk bouncing athletic step, a step forty years younger than her husband's. It had been a most successful marriage. He couldn't do it, and she didn't want to. They had one child. He didn't take after either of them. He did it all the time and walked with a stick. Into the shop bounded the ex-shot-put champion.
' Coooooooeeeee! Are you in there, darling ?'
The lid of Lenny's coffin rose up. 'Hello, little darlin',' said Lenny cheerfully.
An Irish stew struck him between the eyes. Mrs Croucher ran screaming from the shop.
'There's your receipt, sir,' said Mr Croucher after carefully counting and recounting thirty-eight carefully forged pound notes.
'We'll take the coffin back on our cart,' said Shamus, standing up.
The culinary arts of the world are varied and a blessing to the sensitive innards of the gourmet, but never in his tour of the globe had Mr Croucher seen a man in a coffin, unconscious and covered in Irish stew.
That night Ruben lay abed cooing through his shrunken gums. A thirty-eight-pound coffin sale. 'Bless us and thank thee, oh Lord, for the merciful benefits thou bestowest on us.' He crossed himself on his home-made prayer, turned slowly on to his good side and fell into a deep peaceful thirty-eight-pound dream. At three o'clock in the morning he died in his sleep. The cost of his funeral came to exactly thirty-eight pounds. His puzzled wife was now in the county jail for passing forged currency. Without her restraining hand her onanistic son now walked with two sticks and a stoop.
Autumn, season of mists and mellow fruitfulness.
'That's a lot of rot,' said Milligan, examining his fingers for frost bite. He scraped the jigsaw of leaves into little funeral pyres. He stooped to light one and warm his hands. The shrill elastic whistle of a robin came clear through
the misty morning.
'Awww, shut up, yer idiot!' Milligan was in no mood for nature.
His wages were two weeks overdue and his wife was three.
'I say, Paddy.'
Milligan looked up. Webster was outside the Customs tent beckoning him.
'Me name's not Paddy,' he replied defiantly. He hated Englishmen who called Irishmen 'Paddy'.
' Would you like a cup of tea Paddy ?'
'Paddy' Milligan dropped his rake and arrived before it hit the ground.
' It's der first time I had tea with der Customs!'
' Like a dash of whisky ?'
'I'll accept dat, sur.'
'Say when.'
' I certainly will not!'
'Found this bottle on a mourner at Dan Doonan's funeral.'
'Oh well, some of dem needs it. Especially the bereaved. I knew a feller so bereaved he could hardly stand.'
In the face of such hospitality, Milligan felt a twinge of conscience, just below the knee. For the last three weeks they had let him through the border without even searching him; in return he had spent his time surreptitiously loosening the earth round Dan Doonan's grave in preparation for the event. All that remained now was for Father Rudden to give the word.
Father Rudden was all ready to give the word but for the unexpected arrival of two ragged-arsed men both smoking the same cigarette and pushing a coffin. Strange. He'd not been notified of a funeral.
'Please, Father,' said Shamus, 'we are poor illiterate farmers, we can't read, write, or post letters. We have pushed the coffin of our grandmother a hundred miles for this burial. We would be grateful if you would officiate.'
Father Rudden was about to refuse when Shamus produced a wad of pound notes. ' Father, we would like to donate dis to the church. . .'
Before Shamus had finished, the priest, never taking his eyes off the money, sprinted backwards to the vestry and returned fully robed with the book open at the service.
One hour later, the customs were examining the beautifully forged passport of the late Mrs Eileen Ford. There followed a solemn burial of two hundred and eighty pounds of t.n.t. Amen.
Puckoon Page 8