Shambles Corner

by Edward Toman

  ‘All minerals are a pound,’ Paddy John spoke at last. He sat on where he was.

  It took some of the pilgrims a minute or two to see the problem. They were under orders to carry no money, for money in your pocket was a sure source of temptation. Where they were going, they needed no money, and they were penniless to a man. The vision of beaded bubbles winking at the brim faded fast. The soda siphon stood undisturbed on the shelf.

  ‘Show me to your bathroom upstairs,’ snapped Father Alphonsus, knowing his rights as a travelling priest. ‘Wait here,’ he added sourly as Paddy John rose slowly to his feet. ‘Then we’d best be on our way.’

  His ill humour was not helped by the discovery soon afterwards that one of the party was missing. They shouted for him round the back, but Patrick Pearse lay low in the clabber out of sight. They lifted the seats of the bus, in case he was having an illicit sleep. They walked a hundred yards up the main road till it petered out, and a hundred yards back down the road they had come on till the darkness of the countryside repelled them. They peered in at the doors of the other deserted pubs, knowing now they would never find him. They were nervous and angry, but their search was desultory. After an hour Father Alphonsus called them off. ‘He made a bargain and he broke it,’ he told them when they had all gathered in the bus. ‘I wouldn’t be in his shoes for all the tea in China.’ He had Schnozzle to face when he got back to the ghetto. There would be reports to file, an inquiry, an interview with the Cardinal. His career was suddenly in ruins. He cursed himself for not bringing along a posse of Sisters to ride shotgun.

  During his time in California he had once visited Alcatraz, and the effect of the grim buildings, the bleak death row and the sleazy glamour of organized crime that clung to the island had made a great impression on him. The story of his visit to the penitentiary had crept into his sermons. It had actually been an organized picnic tour of the empty island, but this detail had got overlooked; in Saint Matt’s he was now known as a one-time padre to the Mafia. As they settled themselves on the bus once more, they heard the American accent creep into his voice as he pronounced the terrible words of banishment: ‘Let that man never show his face on the Falls Road again,’ he said solemnly. They nodded eager agreement. It was the worst punishment any man could suffer, but it was no more than he deserved. Father Alphonsus looked at his watch and the irritation was clear in his voice. ‘Because of that bucko we’ve missed our last chance of getting a ferry tonight. I was especially looking forward to midnight Mass and the rosary vigil. But there’s no use in crying over spilled milk. We’ll find a quiet spot on the road and spend the night in prayer, and get the first boat over in the morning. Unless, that is, any of the rest of you have other plans!’

  They were solicitous of him, the women rushing to comfort him and smooth his ruffled temper. The driver kept his mouth shut. He had, as it happened, other plans for the evening; by rights he should be off duty by now and he viewed the prospect of a night’s hungry vigil with apprehension. But he had heard the note of warning in the priest’s voice, and he knew better than to step out of line.

  Patrick Pearse McGuffin listened to the noise of the engine fading away but he didn’t move. He stayed where he was for ten minutes, his cars cocked. There were no voices to be heard. But what if the priest had stayed behind, and was waiting for him in Paddy John’s? Or if they turned the bus back after a few miles and returned for one last look. Even if they had really gone, could he trust Paddy John not to turn him in at the first opportunity, for wasn’t he an in-law of Big Mac? He waited a further ten minutes, feeling the cold creep up his frozen legs and the pangs of hunger gnawing at his stomach. Then, unable to take any more of it, he ventured out cautiously from his hiding place and squelched his way across the yard.

  ‘Give us a pint for the love of God!’ he pleaded.

  Paddy John lifted his eyes from the paper as the door opened but he didn’t move.

  ‘I said, give us a pint!’ This time there was a threat in the voice, the threat of a man who has nothing to lose. Paddy John still sat his ground. McGuffin reached down and tore at the hem of his filthy denims. He pulled out his winnings which he had stitched, in defiance of the priest’s orders, into the turn-ups. He threw the money on the counter. Paddy John reached across and lifted a fiver, held it up to the light and examined it unhurriedly. He pocketed it and reached for a glass.

  ‘Any chance of a bite to eat?’ Patrick Pearse inquired, his humour returning as he watched the porter settle.

  Paddy John reached under the counter and tossed him a packet of potato crisps. ‘That’ll be a pound,’ he said, helping himself from the pile of change on the counter.

  Twelve

  Joe Feely put up with the Falls Road and its virtues for most of the day, for Patrick Pearse still had a little money left. He heard about the purity of the faith in West Belfast, the wit and wisdom of its priests, the comeliness of its women, the bravery of its menfolk in the national cause, the steadfastness of young and old in the face of the Orange foe, and the great desire of one and all to return one day to their Gaelic roots. ‘See the Falls?’ Patrick Pearse demanded. ‘See the Falls? You hear more Irish spoken just walking home from Casement Park than you do in the whole of fucking Dublin. That’s the way the Belfast people are.’

  ‘Is that a fact?’ said Joe in wonder. Without breaking the man’s discourse, he semaphored to Paddy John that more drink was required, to give the boy a mineral, to have a little something himself, and that the man from the big smoke was in the chair.

  ‘That is a fact, mister!’ said Patrick Pearse. There was a hint of aggression in his voice. Like all Belfast men he went through life expecting outsiders to take the piss. Which they usually did. As a result he was constantly on his guard. ‘You’d never get bored on the Falls,’ he went on, his stare wandering to the one window in the bar and the view of wet hillside that it offered. ‘You’d want to meet some of the characters you find on the Falls.’ Joe agreed that that would be nice; again Patrick Pearse thought about hitting him to be on the safe side, but the moment passed. Despite Joe’s lack of conviction, he went on to describe a representative sample of these intriguing characters, illustrating their perspicacity with assorted anecdotes and imperfectly recalled dialogue. Joe ordered another pint for himself and nodded appreciation at being privileged to meet these wits and raconteurs, albeit by proxy.

  The evening came and went; it grew dark. Paddy John continued reading the small print in the local papers. He had a dozen or more in front of him, left behind by pilgrims from all over the province, for secular reading was banned over on the island. The advertisements were for farms in County Down and houses in the Glens of Antrim, the court reports of drunken driving and handling stolen goods were from places far away. But Paddy John read them line by line as if those named were his own neighbours, giving every paragraph his full attention.

  By closing time Joe had had enough of the ghetto. The man from Belfast was on his feet now, entertaining them to snatches of ‘The Black Velvet Band’ and the money was running out fast. Joe stood up and took him firmly by the elbow. ‘Come over here,’ he said. ‘If it’s strange wonders you’re after, I’ll show you one of the strangest in the western world.’ The Belfast man allowed himself to be steered to a spot in the middle of the floor. Joe took hold of his shoulders and positioned him carefully astride a crack in the dirty lino. ‘There you are,’ he said triumphantly, returning to the bar and finishing both drinks.

  ‘There you are what?’ said the Falls man.

  ‘“I’ve got four green fields,” ‘Joe yodelled. ‘“But one of them’s in bondage …”’

  ‘Are you trying to make a cunt out of me?’

  ‘It doesn’t take me to do that.’

  ‘What the fuck am I supposed to be looking at?’

  ‘Do you see that crack?’ Joe demanded. ‘You are now standing astride an international frontier. Am I right, Paddy John?’ The proprietor continued reading his paper. He had heard
this class of conversation all too often.

  ‘Your left leg is now breathing the free air of the Republic, while your right leg is suffering the humiliation of seven hundred years of colonial rule. Correct me if I’m wrong, Paddy John!’ The latter began, slowly and methodically, to fold up the newspaper and put it on the bar. ‘While your arsehole is in no-man’s-land,’ Joe added. ‘One side of the bar’ – he indicated with a sweep of his hand the three small tables and a door marked Private – ‘is licensed by Dublin Castle, while the other side’ – he pointed to a broken table, a stack of empty crates and another door marked Private – ‘is licensed courtesy of Stormont Castle. I’m sure mine host will bear me out in this.’

  ‘You’re taking the piss out of me,’ Patrick Pearse said.

  ‘Have it your own way. But every gobshite knows that this is a town divided against itself. Do you never read the papers? The border runs through the middle of this place, separating brother from brother. A man could be sleeping in bed with his wife and yet the pair of them sleeping in different countries. And while we’re on that subject, certain wee articles legal on one side of the bed would get you six months without the option on the other side. Work that one out!’ Paddy John was suddenly on his feet. There would be none of that talk in his house, but Joe was in full flow, heedless of the warning signs. ‘A cow and a heifer in a barn. One’s in the Free State, the other’s in the six counties. Tell that to the beasts! Or maybe you have the border running down your kitchen table; you pass your missus the butter to put on her piece, and you have to declare it to the customs man! Am I right?’

  The Belfast man stood in the middle of the bar, transfixed, his legs splayed. He stared at the line on the floor, unable to take his eyes off it. The Falls Road had nothing to compare to this. Slowly he began to sway backwards and forwards. He tried to lift one leg, then the other, but he seemed to be rooted to the spot. Nothing in his experience had prepared him for this. This was the reality of his poor broken homeland staring him in the face. He could feel the vomit rising in his throat, the bile churning in his guts at what the English had done to the four green fields of Ireland. He tried to make for the door, but it was too late. The boke swelled up in him, erupted with a roar, splashing out pale and acrid over both sides of the border equally.

  ‘Someone’s going to have to clean that up,’ said Paddy John menacingly. He lifted the flap in the bar and moved purposefully towards Patrick Pearse.

  ‘Sure the lad shouldn’t drink and him fasting,’ said Joe, lifting the paper and disengaging himself from the rest of the proceedings. The Belfast man was on his own now, as far as Joe was concerned. He feigned a sudden absorption in the Donegal Democrat with its columns of closely printed marriages and deaths.

  It was when he was thus engaged that his eye happened to light on the florid jottings of Your Western Correspondent, one Tobias Sharkey.

  Rookie Guard Prionsios O’Malley pedalled slowly through the biting rain and dismounted at the head of the village. He removed his cap and wiped his face with the back of his hand. O’Malley’s face was pockmarked from a decade of acne and self abuse, but his body was thick-set and solid. He looked older than his nineteen years. He settled the cap back on his head and remounted the bike awkwardly. Despite the rain and the cold welcome that the place offered, O’Malley was well pleased with himself. He had come to pay his respects to his new patch.

  The village was little more than a straggle of houses and outhouses, conforming to no particular pattern. Nothing moved. That was the way he liked it. Some of the other lads on the training course had been looking forward to the excitement of the new job, baton charges on a Saturday night, manning roadblocks, raiding houses. Not O’Malley; he reckoned there would be enough of that sort of thing in due course, without having to go looking for it. He’d get round to breaking a few heads fairly soon, of course, for a reputation as a hard man never hurt.

  Halfway down the street he dismounted again and parked the bicycle against a gable wall. He had reached the limit of his jurisdiction. The border ran across the street at this point, unmarked but real enough nonetheless, and O’Malley didn’t intend starting an international incident by crossing over in uniform on his first day. The other side looked peaceful enough. It had been many years since the B-men had been round this way, or the RUC either, but three generations of police blood in his veins cautioned prudence. He knew it was through the influence of his late father, God rest him, and the reputation of his grandfather, an old RIC man, that he had landed such a plum job. The rest of the intake had been shunted off to the inner city immediately after the initial training was over. All except O’Malley. The powers that be had spotted his potential, and knew he would be wasted anywhere but on the border.

  He was about to turn back to his beat when he became aware of some activity. The door of Paddy John’s suddenly flew open and the proprietor himself emerged holding a remonstrating patron by the scruff of the neck. Effortlessly he walked to the middle of the street and without further ceremony dropped him at O’Malley’s feet before returning to his business, closing the door behind him. This is a bit of luck, thought the Guard. The man on the ground made a few futile attempts to rise, then gave up. He was his for the taking. He could book him; he could beat the shite out of him; he could do both, though the sergeant might consider that excessive. He thought it through for a while, for it was clear that the man on the deck was going nowhere. He tried getting up again, but the effort proved too much for him. He lay frozen and immobile in the foetal posture at O’Malley’s feet.

  Technically speaking there was a problem. His head was within his jurisdiction, but unless he was very much mistaken, the man’s arse was safely in the six counties. This called for circumspection. Overeagerness in border areas is never advised – sound advice his father had drummed into him all his life. And once again his father was proved right, for the man at his feet suddenly found his voice and began to berate the sleeping village. And O’Malley realized at once that this was no ordinary local gobshite that Paddy John had evicted, but a man from West Belfast.

  A rare opportunity and no mistake! There were many things that O’Malley hated, but high on his list were boys from Belfast. Yet here was one, gift-wrapped like a Christmas box, just asking for a boot in the balls. He worked his toecap systematically into the man’s ribs and prodded him in an exploratory fashion. Was it all too good to be true? he wondered. Was he being set up, on his first day? The man might have mates, wizened youths like himself with cruel mouths and a way with blunt instruments. For Patrick Pearse, having abandoned the struggle to get upright, was calling for assistance to someone still in the pub. O’Malley stood his ground.

  ‘Come out here for the love of fuck and give us a hand,’ he pleaded. ‘See me! I’ve only been buying you drink all day like a cunt. And minerals for the wee lad. Now look at me and look at you! Give us a hand for the love of fuck!’ Nothing positive came from this line of entreaty, and the door of the pub stayed firmly shut. O’Malley prodded his ribs once more and the Belfast man’s tone changed from wheedling pleas for assistance to threats and abuse directed towards the man who had dropped him so ignominiously in his present predicament. ‘See you, Paddy fucking John, see you? You’re dead, fella! See when I get back to the Falls, You’re a dead man! I’ll take you on any time, fella! Any time! You’re nothing but a cunt! See the next time you see me, I’ll be carrying, fella. Then we’ll see who’s the big man! Right between the eyes, fella! I’ll be carrying all right! You can run but you can’t hide …’

  O’Malley let him go on like this for a few minutes longer, for nothing gives quite the same frisson of fear as a Belfast man claiming to have the ear of the Movement and issuing threats on its behalf. All shite of course, O’Malley reckoned, but there was no point in taking chances. Should he take the man in and let the sergeant handle it? Would the sergeant appreciate such a visitor of a Saturday night? Especially if your man turned out to be connected after all? Maybe he should jus
t pull him over into the Free State and kick seven shades of shite out of him and let it go at that? Okay as far as it goes, but what if the whole thing’s a set-up, an ambush to lure him out into the open where he’d be at the mercy of some fucker in a balaclava and a Saturday night special? Bollocks, he said to himself. Boys like Paddy John didn’t take risks of a political nature. Too busy making money. If there was even a suspicion of an illegal organization about your man, Paddy John would be giving him free drink yet. Seeing him quietly off the premises. Assuring him he was welcome any time, weren’t we all on the same side? If Paddy John threw him over the border, it meant he was nothing but shite.

  O’Malley lifted his boot and kicked him firmly in the liver. Patrick Pearse stopped his shouting and looked up. O’Malley kicked him again. Patrick Pearse’s eyes focused on the figure looming over him. He recognized the cap, the harp insignia, the greatcoat. He tried to struggle to his feet to salute this guardian of the peace, this representative of the Republic. His brain fought to find an appropriate greeting in the native tongue. O’Malley brought his boot down firmly on his face. He could feel the blood of his ancestors pulsing through his veins; this was real police work at last. He knew now he could make it, to the very top if he wanted to. He lifted the man by the ankles and swung him across the street as easily as if he were throwing a chicken across a farmyard. The Belfast man, in spite of his befuddled state, recognized what was happening and began to crawl back towards the middle of the road. Like a reflex or an instinct, something deep within him guided him back towards the Free State, for he knew he could never make it, never survive in the North. O’Malley waited till he had painfully reached the middle of the road again, then lifted him once more and flung him back. He looked up and down the street. The coast was clear; not a sinner stirred. He stepped over the border and lifted the Belfast man by the seat of the trousers. Then, throwing caution to the winds, he marched across and kicked open the door of Paddy John’s. He frogmarched Patrick Pearse through the bar and flung open the door marked Private. It led to the gents in the back alley, and beyond lay the yard, knee-deep in clabber. O’Malley dropped his prey unceremonially in the muck, and slowly wiped his hands together. Patrick Pearse made no effort to rise. O’Malley watched him for a few minutes before striding back to the bar.