From the corner of the room came the conspiratorial whisper of Father Rudden talking rapidly to the Milligan. Father placed one hand on Milligan's shoulder.' We'll re-bury him tonight in Holy Catholic Ireland,' said the priest, his voice full of pride and achievement.
'You realize that we've only got two more dear souls to bring back and we've won,' he waved his hands aloft like battle flags.'
People will point to you in the street.'
'Dey do dat already,' said Milligan disgruntedly.
'Ahh! But this will be different, you'll be a hero! There he goes, they'll say, or, here he comes, according to the direction you're travelling. On top of that, if the Pope gets to hear of it, you could be made a Papal Knight.'
' Me, a Papal Knight ?' Milligan screwed his eyes up to get a better vision of himself walking up the steps of the Vatican.
'How are yer, Milligan me boy?' the Pope would say.
' I'm fine, yer honour,' the Milligan would reply.
' My, my, my, Milligan, you done a fine job o' work diggin' up them stiffs and bringin' 'em back to consecrated ground.'
Milligan would smile, 'Well yer honour, anything fer the old Church.'
Then the trumpets would blare out Danny Boy by Cellini snd the Pope would give him a certificate, two pounds, and a bottle of holy water. 'Arise, Sir Papal Knight The Milligan.'
'All right Fadder,' said Milligan,' I'll do it.'
'And remember, Milligan,' the priest said, a look of profound wisdom on his face, 'there's an old Irish saying -' he paused, his eyes closed as though searching his soul. Milligan stood quietly by.
The priest opened his eyes,' I can't quite remember it at the moment,' he concluded.
Outside the gardener's hut Milligan paused to light his pipe; a hairy arm reached out from the shed and laced around his throat dragging him back.
'This is a gun in yer back,' hissed a hoarse voice.
'All right,' gasped Milligan, 'as long as you don't shoot I can stand it.'
The arm uncurled. He turned to see Shamus Ford.
'Look lively,' said the gunman, 'take yer clothes off, hurry.'
The pistol's blue mouth was directed at Milligan's heart.
Slowly Milligan removed his trousers, not without a feeling of apprehension.
'Dere's a limit to what I'll do,' he warned the gunman.
Milligan wondered if this strange metal-clad figure was one of them homosexual murderers that were so popular in better educated countries. Naked, save for his socks, Milligan was told to stand in the corner of the hut with his hands above his head.
' Now,' said the voice,' you'll stay facing that way.'
The door closed behind him. The outside bolt went home. He heard the gunman's horse gallop away. Snow was starting to fall.
It was cold. Milligan lit the stove and started to shout for help.
Next to the stove the coffin started to singe.
Mr Moris Prells walked with mathematical precision up the church drive. He had the white blotting-paper complexion of a man who worked under cover and slept with the windows closed.
In his wallet, Mr Prells carried ten neat calling cards wrapped in tissue paper. They were printed: Mr Julian S. Prells, County Quantitive Surveyor. Department of Weights, Measures and Statistics.
Mr Prells calculated that at that very moment his age was forty-seven years, three months, two days, ten hours and forty minutes. His weight with the grey suit was one hundred and sixty-eight pounds, three ounces. Life was a precise affair. One was better equipped to face it with facts and figures at one's disposal. It gave one a sense of certainty in an uncertain world.
At this very moment, if anyone were to ask him the precise weight of the sewerage discharged by Puckoon he could answer down to the fine ounce.
At parties he often told people without being asked. One must have facts and figures. Each and every one of us is a fact and a figure. His little meek wife, walking on an invisible chain at his side, she was a fact and figure. In fact, at eighteen she had been a very good figure. From his attic room he was able to watch her undress. Even from that distance he was able to jot down 36, 20, 36. That was twenty-three years and five months ago; last week he had bought her a pair of corsets 43, 29, 42, in memory of those happy 36, 20, 36 days.
Together they were strolling up the church drive to evening devotions. He gauged his stride as two feet nine inches, and each foot would weigh roughly a pound. Oh yes, these little statistical walks with his wife gave him much information. One statistic he wasn't aware of. The ever-widening gap between him and her. And the ever-narrowing one between her and the coalman. Suddenly his calculations were interrupted.
'Psstttttttttttttt!' Mr Prells stopped. ' Psssssstttt-ttttt!' There it was again, well not exactly again. This was a second Psssttt but sounded exactly the same as the first. ' Pssttttttttttt!' It appeared to be coming from inside the gardener's shed. There must be someone in residence. Smoke was coming from the chimney. Mr Prells leaned towards the door and spoke.
' Who's in there going " Pssstttt" ?' he inquired.
'Me name's Milligan. Dan Milligan.'
'I'm very pleased to meet you,' said Prells through the keyhole, and raising his hat. ' My name is Prells
and this is my wife Hetty.' So saying he slid one of his cards under the door.
' Please unbolt the door, it's a matter of life and death.' Deftly Mr Prells withdrew the bolt, the door opened slowly, and there stood Milligan, the Roman Soldier.
Before he could explain, there was a crunch of Ulster Police boots on gravel. 'That's the feller!' shouted the Sergeant. In a moment, Milligan went under to a sea of flailing truncheons and snapping handcuffs. 'Thang!' went the truncheons on Milligan's helmet. 'Thang! Thang!' Mr Prells assessed that each truncheon would weigh three pounds, there were five of them, they were descending on Milligan's head at the rate of one blow every three seconds, therefore, five by three gave a total weight of fifteen pounds per combined hit, fifteen pounds every three seconds, therefore in one hour's hitting the man in the Roman helmet would receive 15 X 3 = 45 lbs in weight. A good weight.
'Helppppp! Stop!' screamed Milligan, 'Stoppp-ppp! I surrender!'
'Not till we've finished you don't,' came the gleeful reply.
'Stop, I got something important to tell you,' said the Milligan. The relentless thudding stopped.' Well, what is it?' asked the Sergeant. 'You're a lot of Protestant Bastards, that's what!' said Milligan, immediately going into the foetal position. ' Thang!' went the truncheons with renewed vigour. ' Thang -Thang Thang!'
Through the blue serge legs, Milligan saw a small tent of blue that the prisoner called the sky. He took it. Up the road he ran, his left wrist handcuffed to his right ankle. Rocks bounced off his skull. The police were gaining, proof positive that five pairs of legs are faster than one.
' Help, me legs are outnumbered!' he shouted, the light of despair coming into his eyes. 'sojjorrox!' he yelled.
Francois D'Fruites, tall, thin, passionate, mustachioed croupier at the Monte Carlo tables, was momentarily puzzled; he had not previously noticed this unshaven man in the exquisite evening clothes. Nevertheless there he was now. The man appeared breathless, repeatedly looking over his shoulder and occasionally feeling his legs.
The man suddenly looked at his own garb in great surprise, then his face broke into a broad relieved grin. A highly suspicious manager had inquired of him,' Can I be of help, m'sieur ?' and was answered with,' Speak English, you ignorant swine.'
' Pardon ?' said the manager, lapsing into English. ' May I see your membership card ?'
' Sure,' said the Milligan, producing a million-franc note. 'Dere it is me old froggie lad, and dere's more where dat came from,' he said, waving a fistful in his face.
The manager swayed slightly. 'Merci,' he was heard to say very feebly.
A creature in red velvet, white skin and raven hair, reeking of all the latest anti-underarm odours, saw the money and was suddenly drawn towards this fascinating
stranger.
'Good evening, you naughty man,' she said, affectionately stroking his currency, and smiled at him from a forty-two inch bosom.
Milligan knew that the more a woman's bust protrudes the more her mind recedes.
'Hello, little darlin',' he said from the waist down. 'Vous le vous promenade avec moi?' he said from his little store of 1914
French. 'Kaiser Bill fini,' he informed her.
' Meet me at zis address,' she said, slipping him a well-thumbed picture of a bedroom. 'We will 'ave a good time, not to mention Bazonka.'
' Bazonka ?' he queried.
' I told you not to mention that!' she said.
He slipped his arm around her waist, even as he did five Ulster police burst through the main Casino door. 'There's the bastard!' shouted the leading one. 'Thang!' went the first truncheon on Milligan's skull.
'It sounds like him, lads,' said the Sergeant.
'Thankety-thang-thang!' went the truncheons.
'What's going on here?' said Father Rudden issuing from the vestry, his face covered in shaving soap. 'What are you doing in me churchyard?' he roared, pulling off a layer of policemen.
'This man is a member of the i.r.a., sir,' they said pointing at the Milligan.
'Nonsense, this man is my gardener.'
'Then your gardener is a member of the i.r.a.,' they said dragging Milligan away.
'Stop!' said the priest. 'Gentlemen,' he said in tones most contrite, but continuing to shave, 'if you'll step into the vestry, I will admit the entire plot to capture the Queen.'
The Sergeant dropped his truncheon with shock. This was a turn-up for the book.
'Very well,' said the Sergeant, 'first I'll want a signed confession.'
The priest stood to one side, he was not numerically equipped to stand more. 'In here,' he said.
One by one the police filed into the vestry. The door slammed behind.
' Run for the polis and the militia!' they heard him shout to Milligan.
The trapped men were hammering on the inside of the door and nails started to fly like confetti. The priest was shaving as fast as he could. In the gardener's hut, the wood of the coffin was starting to smoulder, and somewhere a drunk called Hermonogies K. Thuckrutes lay face down in a gutter singing.
The wind blew bitter cold. Twenty-four hours since the panther escaped. Mr Wretch and Gulio Caesar looked miserably at each other. The creature must have crossed the border. The cage pulled up at the Customs post, wearily Gulio let himself to the ground and approached a smarting sentry. 'Just let him tell me his name is Julius Caesar,' he thought.
'Pardona me,' said the little Italian, 'mya name is Gulio Caesar -'
The next moment he was on his back, the soldier jumping up and down on his stomach, a bayonet at his nose. 'And I'm Brutus!' yelled the gleeful soldier. He was eventually restrained by Barring-ton.
'What do you want?' he asked the unfortunate Gulio.
'We wanta to crossa da border.' 'Then I must examine the cage for contraband.' He entered the cage up three steps. The horse gave a little lurch. The cage door slammed, now, it was one of those tricky locks....
With Ah Pong on the pillion, Sergeant MacGilli-kudie cycled to investigate the Chinaman's report of 'mass poachings'. Snow was falling and the little yellow man's gold teeth were chattering with eighteen carat gold. Turning a corner they came upon a hopping Roman, ankle handcuffed to wrist, who for the last mile had been desperately trying to mount a bike and would have been well advised to leave it alone.
' Milligan!' shouted MacGillikudie.' What in God's name are you doing ?'
Without warning his pillion passenger, the Sergeant dismounted, his boot contacting Ah Pong's gold teeth and thus devaluing the Chinaman's head by thirty Hong Kong dollars.
Standing up bent double, Milligan gabbled out the story.
' Quick, on the cross bar,' said MacGillikudie.
Downhill rode the avenging trio, the wind howling through the gap in Ah Pong's teeth. Faster and faster revolved the Sergeant's legs, his mind occupied with thoughts of massive arrests and promotion.
'Ah Pong,' said Sergeant MacGillikudie, 'I am exceeding the speed limit, I want you to book me?
'I do,' said the Chinese.
'Good, now I arrest you as you are going the same speed!' The Law was the law.
For an hour they hammered and banged on the lock of the cage.
It was starting to snow.
'Someone go and get an acetylene cutter,' said Barrington gripping the bars.
'Mama mia, no no,' said Gulio, 'data would ruin da lock!'
'There's a locksmith in Puckoon,' said Mr Wretch, ' a retired burglar, he wants to get his hand in again.'
'Anything,' said Barrington, 'but get me out of this frightful cage.'
Mr Wretch turned the pony towards Puckoon.
They were puzzled farmworkers who watched the cage with its attendant shouting-skipping-alongside children. It had got to the poking him with sticks stage.
' Get away, dem you!' shouted Barrington. ' What hav yez done rong mister ?' ' Was it a murder ?' 'Have you got a diz-ease?'
A pebble hit Barrington on his aristocratic ear. ' Stop that!' he fumed. Another pebble bounced off his neck. 'And stop that as well!' This only invoked a shower of stones, orange peels, toffee papers, spits, sherbet sticks, and incessant tauntings. In a frenzy, under a non-stop barrage of ridicule and missiles, Barrington retaliated with a trick usually performed by enraged male chimpanzees in zoos. Soon the pony outstripped the penny-rich children, leaving them in their laughter-diced air. In the cage Barrington nursed a stinging member that some little dead eye dick had hit with a nettle. At a steady trot Gulio Caesar headed for Puckoon.
God in heaven, what was this ? Mr Wretch stood up and went vest-white.
' L-l-look!' He pointed an obstetrical finger. There coming down the hill, were three terrified men on a bike, pursued by - was it ? - the panther! Gulio tried to rein, but the pony had seen it, about turned, whinnied and bolted towards the border. The three men on the bike shot past the cart, screaming and saying the rosary; the panther changed its stride, leaped on to the cage, and started slashing down at the cowering Barrington.
Hypodermic at the ready, Mr Wretch sat rooted with fear.
'Stick eet in-a his bum!' shouted Gulio over the noise.
Mr Wretch stood up, stumbled, and fell needle first into Gulio's thigh; he gave one loud shriek then fell into a deep smiling-faced Neapolitan sleep. 1
Haring past them went a lorry with the Republic militia, the bulb horn clearing the way. At the wheel sat Sergeant Major Kevin Grady who last week was a private, his rapid promotion due to the discovery of his commanding officer's boots under his wife's bed; every night since he had looked under the bed for further promotion. All were converging on the church where Father Rudden now stood over four unconscious Ulster Police, while a fifth had escaped to the border post and was shouting insults.
'You can have 'em for ten pounds in the poor box,' was the priest's reply, at which moment MacGillikudie and Co, both brakes and all hope gone, shot into the churchyard and hit a tombstone. All three were catapulted up through the stained glass window. Ah Pong fell unconscious on the organ keyboard and a mighty atonal chord ensued. Milligan and the Sergeant were hurtled into the middle of the organ pipes, which began to fall like iron rain, clanging into the empty aisle.
Outside the militia truck drew up with a screech and out shot a crowd in mixed uniforms who immediately threw a cordon round each other. Guffaws came from troops at the Customs post.
Enraged Sergeant Grady barked, 'Take aim, one round over dem laffin bastards' heads - fire!' To the accompaniment of clanging organ pipes a volley rent the air.
' Caw!' said a crow.
'Help!' said the Milligan, an organ pipe jammed over his head.
A return volley from the Customs post whistled overhead, a bullet hit Milligan's pipe, and vibrations of 300 decibels in E flat didn't help his temper. Soon, volleys of'
over the head fire' from both sides were all the rage. Father Rudden ran up and down his line of Ulster police, hitting each one as he became conscious.
Smoke bombs were being thrown.
' Look out!' yelled a voice.
Into their midst galloped a horse desperately trying to keep up with the cage it was pulling; through the middle it plunged, scattering them all, flattening the Customs shed, trampling tents.
The coffin in the shed burst into flames. At 4.32 the world of Puckoon erupted in a crimson-throated roar, with screams, smoke, yells, swears; debris flew everywhere, the clock in the church suddenly struck endless ones, hundreds of bats flew from their belfry; one hundred and fifty feet up, Ah Pong regained consciousness and blew his whistle.
Father Rudden was blown backwards out of his boots.
MacGillikudie's moustache was singed from his face, he hid his shame with a bucket over his head. The great bell fell from the tower and landed directly over Mr Prells. The nights are closing in he thought. The dust and debris settled. A great silence settled over the land. Ten years have passed since that fateful day, ten years have journeyed to their end and Puckoon once again was lost in its unhurried ways. The Church was restored by a rich Catholic, Father Rudden found faith in a pair of new boots. The mute steeple clock once again ticked out with a new life, the border posts were never rebuilt, to this very day no one is quite sure exactly where the border lies, in fact each and every character in the picture returned to his or her own ways, all except one man, a Roman Soldier hanging from a tree with a rusty organ pipe lodged over his head, from where came a muffled voice.' You can't leave me like this!'
'Oh, can't I?'
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