Sean Tyrone

by Mark Ryan

  That morning when she passed me by,

  The hussy would not meet my eye.

  Lewis ap Bwgan

  Back on Commercial Street I saw a light in the middle of the road. Three ragged people, two men and a woman, sat about an open fire. I walked up unnoticed. As they passed a bottle between them, they cackled at something unspoken. A joke they each knew so well it no longer needed the telling.

  ‘That’s a good one,’ said the woman.

  One of the men wore an eyepatch.

  ‘You’re right there,’ he said. ‘It’s a good one isn’t it, Dafydd?’

  ‘It’s a good one all right.’

  The one-eyed man looked up and saw me.

  ‘Who’s this then?’

  The woman stared at me and spat into the fire. Her phlegm hissed and crackled.

  ‘He’s no one.’

  ‘So why’s he here?’ said the one-eyed man.

  ‘He has nowhere else to be. Isn’t that right, Dafydd?’

  ‘I’d say that was about right.’

  ‘So who are you, butt?’

  ‘He’s nobody,’ said the woman, still holding me with her cold staring eyes.

  ‘But he’s here. Would you agree, Dafydd?’

  ‘He’s here, certain enough.’

  ‘Then we should welcome him,’ said the one-eyed man.

  ‘Tell him to lose himself.’

  ‘No no no, Mair. We have us a new friend here. Let us learn his name and welcome him unto our circle.’

  ‘He’s nothing. That’s right, Dafydd?’

  ‘I goes along with that.’

  The conversation was not going my way. For want of anything better to say, I indicated the patch.

  ‘So…how did you lose the eye?’

  ‘Ah, that’s a sad story. It was during the war…’

  ‘Which war?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. That’s another story altogether. Anyway, I was anxious not to be called up on account of my various commitments, obligations and ailments.’

  ‘Like your yellow belly,’ said Mair.

  ‘Enough, woman. So I went to my Uncle Hywel for advice. He had lost his eye in an incident involving his wife, a pan of boiling water and a local girl he was on friendly terms with and he offered me the lend of his black eyepatch to get over the medical. I turned up to see the doctor and all went as planned so I had a few drinks with the recruiting sergeant by way of celebration. Then I caught the bus and was overcome by a terrible tiredness so I dozed off for a little while. Then I went to my uncle’s house to tell him the news and return his property. Here you must steel yourself to learn the awful truth of what had befallen me. When I removed the patch there it was.’

  ‘There was what?’

  ‘Nothing, lad. Where once I had been the proud owner of a matching pair I now had but one eye and one black and dreadful socket. Do you want to see?’

  ‘No thanks. What had happened?’

  ‘Theft, my boy. While I was asleep on the bus, some despicable opportunist had lifted the patch and stolen my eye.’

  ‘That’s terrible. Why would they have done that?’

  ‘I have given that very question much thought, lad. My eye would have had very little resale value and although times were hard I don’t think the miscreant could have been driven by hunger. I have also considered divine retribution for the harmless deception I had practised, but was loath to credit the vengeful God of the Old Testament with the sense of humour necessary to conceive and perform such an act. Which can only lead me to one conclusion.’

  ‘Which is what?’

  ‘It was stolen for a laugh. A story they could tell their friends in the pub, perhaps even producing the organ for their further amusement. And afterwards the eye would have been tossed over a hedge or thrown to a dog while I am cursed to walk through life thus disfigured.’

  ‘I has not heard so much cachu since the last time you told that story,’ said Mair. ‘And anyway, it was a cat not a dog.’

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘I said nothing did I, Dafydd?’

  ‘I heard nothing but then I stopped listening some little while ago.’

  Mair spat another ball of phlegm into the fire and regarded me generally.

  ‘That’s a nice pair of strides he’s wearing, Jâms.’

  ‘Straight from the shop wouldn’t you say, Dafydd?’

  ‘Probably still have the price sticker on.’

  ‘They’d fit you nicely,’ said Mair. ‘Come on, butty. Give Dafydd a go of trying them on. Just look at the state of his knackered kecks. Another few days and we’ll have to be looking at his fat hairy old arse day and night and we woudn’t want that, would we Dafydd?’

  ‘The shame would have my old mother turning in her grave, Mair.’

  ‘So off with them.’

  ‘You’re joking sure enough.’

  She stood and took a step towards me.

  ‘Does I look like l’m joking? I doesn’t even like jokes. I has never even laughed once at a joke in my whole life has I, Dafydd?’

  ‘I has never heard you laugh once in all the years I has known you.’

  ‘You’re not having them,’ I said, backing away.

  ‘I hates to contradict you but we are. Jâms, Dafydd… grab his arms.’

  They were on me in an instant.

  ‘No.’

  The two men held me powerless as the woman undid my trousers and pulled them down. I felt the heat of the fire on my legs.

  ‘His underpants smells fresh and clean as well. You could do with a pair of pants, couldn’t you Jâms?’

  ‘It is an embarassment to say I have not a pair to my name. The chafing is something wicked.’

  ‘Then we’ll have them as well and have a look at what you’ve got down there. And if it’s up to scratch there might be something you has for me as well.’

  ‘His dick’s probably clean enough to stir your tea with, eh Dafydd?’

  ‘And eat your biscuits off his arse.’

  I struggled to free myself but the effort was useless.

  ‘No. Wait.’

  The witch was about to pull down my underpants, but there it was. My father’s pistol had appeared in my hand again. The two men dropped their hold on me and stepped back.

  ‘Mair. He’s got a bastard pistol.’

  ‘I sees that, twpsyn. And what’s more, I do recognise it.’

  I moved to where I covered all three of them, and pulled up my trousers with my free hand.

  ‘So do I. How about you, Dafydd?’

  ‘There’s no doubt about it, Jâms.’

  ‘Any of you scum take a step and it will be your last.’ I could barely recognise my own voice. Mair had not taken her eyes from the pistol.

  ‘It is the pistol of Seán Tyrone,’ she said. ‘Who are you and where to did you get it?’

  ‘I am the son of Seán Tyrone.’

  The ragged people exchanged looks. Mair stepped forward wearing an ingratiating smile. The effect was hideous.

  ‘Now you does understand all that was only a joke.’

  ‘I thought you had no time for jokes.’

  ‘Oh no. I do love a good joke, I does. Dafydd will tell you, won’t you Dafydd?

  ‘There is no one for joking like Mair.’

  ‘Jâms?’

  ‘I have lost count of the number of people Mair has had in stitches over the years.’

  I silenced them with a wave of the pistol.

  ‘Where can I find my father?’

  Mair pushed Jâms forward. He avoided my eye and spoke to the pistol.

  ‘Give that pub over there a go. The Deryn Du. They might be able to help you there.’

  ‘There’s nothing we knows,’ said the woman, ‘is there Dafydd?’

  ‘Nothing at all. Dim byd o gwbl.’

  I looked at them steadily.

  ‘The Deryn Du? Is that so? Any one of you try to follow me and you’ll be following me to hell.’

  ‘You’re there alre
ady, butt.’

  It was the woman that had spoken. I directed the pistol at her.

  ‘What was that you said?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Jâms. ‘She said nothing. Isn’t that right Dafydd?’

  ‘I did not hear a word spoken.’

  I left the three ragged people to their fire and approached the Deryn Du.

  How Mary Met Her Death

  Mary had always preferred the company of boys to that of her own sex. As a child she was dismissive of the dolls she was given and any fine clothing that came her way was soon reduced to rags. She did not wish to be a boy herself but was attracted to their pursuits, which among her circle included swearing, fighting, spitting, unwholesome discussion of the baser bodily functions and demonstrating a disdain for all authority both secular and sacred. When she grew older she would occasionally take a boy for a noisy and turbulent ride but her attitude to these brief couplings was there with smoking, drinking, gambling and, of course, fighting.

  She had an elder sister whom she visited from time to time. Sarah had married young and now had three children to keep her at home. Mary enjoyed these visits as they gave her the opportunity to observe at first hand the scene of how things might have panned out should she have gone the way of dolls and fine clothing. Sarah saw things differently.

  ‘One day you’ll meet someone and everything will change for you. You may pity me now and scorn my home, my husband and my three fine children but one day the wind will change and so will you.’

  Mary laughed.

  ‘Then you can say you told me so, but I don’t see it myself.’

  She took a final look at the unwashed dishes, the tear-stained brats and her sister’s sleep-starved face and went down to meet her friends at the club.

  Mary was well liked and respected by the regulars of the Inferno. The dancers parted as she walked to the bar. None of the men attempted to approach her; her scorn for dancing was well known and those who had tried to engage her this way would not make the mistake again. A drink was waiting for her as she took her place among her cronies. As was her habit, Mary made a brief assessment of the bar to check that all was as it should be and always had been.

  A table at the other side of the club was occupied by three men. Two had their backs to the bar but the man on the far side was a stranger. He was a well-built man with jet-black hair, greased back in waves from his forehead. The stranger held the attention of the other two with a joke or a tale he was telling. When it ended all three laughed and she caught the sudden flash of a gold tooth. The stranger met her eyes as though made electrically aware of her attention. Mary turned her eyes away instantly and joined in the banter with her friends. She avoided looking his way again.

  The night passed as had many others with dares and drinks and casual cruelty. Mary and her friends were, as usual, the last to leave and outside the Inferno they made their separate ways home.

  Not long after having closed the front door, Mary heard the metal clunk of the letterbox. A slip of paper lay on the doormat. She took it into the light of the bedroom and read:

  Drop by drop, you torture me,

  The rhythm beats incessantly

  Trapped, transfixed; try as I may,

  I cannot turn my eyes away

  She folded the slip of paper and put it in her pocket.

  The following day, Mary was sitting in her sister’s kitchen when she remembered the note. In truth, it had never been far from her mind. She passed it to Sarah.

  ‘What do you think of this?’

  Sarah read, eyebrows raised.

  ‘Well now,’ she said. ‘It looks like you have an admirer.’

  ‘So you don’t think it’s a threat?’ said Mary. ‘Or a warning?’

  ‘Why? Are you afraid?’

  Mary scoffed at the idea.

  ‘Trust me,’ said her sister. ‘Someone’s set their cap at you. Any idea who?’

  Mary knew none of her acquaintance who would ever dream of such a thing. Thoughtfully, she walked through the village to the Inferno.

  At the bar with her friends, she reluctantly found her gaze drawn to the table at the other side of the club. The stranger was there but alone tonight. Again he seemed to sense her eyes upon him and met them with his own. Again Mary turned away and avoided looking in that direction again. She felt anger against this timid self; why was it not demanding explanation of this naked attention, and demanding vengeance for this rude intrusion? He was a well-built man, but she had brought down bigger and had her lads behind her. It was against all reason. When, shortly before closing time, she quickly glanced across the emptying room, the stranger had gone and Mary felt relieved of a weight that had burdened her all evening.

  She hesitated before letting herself in and looked down at the doormat. Yes, there was another slip of paper. Mary seized it and read.

  One by one, my friends arise

  They see the madness in my eyes

  It was not there two nights ago

  If I am mad, you made me so.

  The next day, Sarah laughed as she handed the note back to her sister.

  ‘He’s persistent, this lad of yours. Still no idea who he might be?’

  ‘I have an idea,’ said Mary. ‘But I’m not at all sure it means what you think it means. This talk of torture and madness. Where are the birds and the flowers and the moon and the stars?’

  ‘Would you have any patience with any man who carried that sort of thing around in his head?’

  Mary was again thoughtful as she walked through the village.

  Leaning against the bar of the Inferno, she swore to herself that nothing would make her give the most cursory glance across the room to that table. Luckily the club was busy that night and the floor was jammed with dancers; no clear view would have been available even if Mary had weakened.

  As the evening drew to a close the dancefloor cleared. Against her will she found her eyes drawn to that forbidden corner. Two lads and two girls she had known since school were sat at the table. The stranger was not there if ever he had been.

  At home the doormat was bare. Mary felt a strange sensation that she did not like and quickly shrugged off. She went to the bedroom and began to undress.

  Clunk.

  She rushed to the door in her barefeet and shift and plucked up the note.

  Step by step, you draw me near

  And I approach, despite my fear

  You have me wholly in your power

  Dark Lady of the Midnight Hour.

  Without a thought in her head, Mary opened the door. Across the street stood a well-built man with jet-black hair, greased back in waves from his forehead. He smiled and the gold tooth flashed in the moonlight as he crossed the street.

  The next morning, Mary went to her sister’s to borrow a dress and a pair of high heels.

  At the Inferno, her absence was quickly noted. After a few nights her friends and acquaintances began to show something that could be mistaken for concern. It was even suggested someone might call at her flat, but there was no volunteer. Respect for Mary contained no small element of unmanly fear. The fact was they had all passed Mary in the village, but so changed was she in appearance and manner they had failed to recognise her. She in turn had not called out or acknowledged them in any way; her eyes were fixed only on the well-built man with jet-black hair whose arm she held with such pride.

  Mary continued to visit her sister from time to time. Of course, Sarah was delighted with the turn of events.

  ‘I told you the wind would change,’ she said. ‘Has he said anything yet?’

  ‘Said anything about what?’

  ‘You know. Settling down. Getting married and starting a family, that sort of thing. You’ve gone red. Who would’ve ever thought I’d see my little sister blush?’

  Mary denied it, but was lost in thought as she walked through the village. By the time she reached home, she had made a decision. Although there was no doubt she had undergone a metamorphosis little short o
f a miracle, she had retained the forward and forthright edge of her nature. She took her lover by the hands and looked into his eyes.

  ‘We must talk about the future.’

  ‘The future?’ he said. ‘Well… no doubt there’ll be jet-packs and trips to Mars and the like…’

  ‘No. Our future. Have you never thought that we might get married and maybe start a family? Has the thought never occurred to you?’

  He stared at her for a moment and then smiled his gold-toothed smile. Slowly he began to laugh, a laugh that welled up from his belly.

  ‘Don’t,’ said Mary. ‘Don’t laugh at me, I’m serious.’

  ‘Marry? Marry you? Sweetheart, I don’t even like you.’

  ‘But the poems,’ said Mary. ‘Those notes you put through my door. I’ve kept them with me always.’

  ‘They weren’t mine. I copied them from a book in the library. I only bothered with them for the amusement of having a hard-faced bitch like you dancing girlish attention on me. Marriage? That’s a corker. Why should I want to saddle myself with a raddled old tart like you?’

  Mary sat on the bed and heard the front door slam shut. For a time she was coldly empty but then she began to feel the embers of a fire begin to glow in the depths of her guts. The flames began to flicker, kindled by a molten mass of lava that surged upward filling every part of her until erupting in an almost unending scream that could only have originated in the bowels of Hell itself.

  And then silence. She looked down at the dress she was wearing; it was torn and the flesh beneath was riven with scratches. Fresh blood stained her fingers. A fly buzzed angrily about the room and she watched it with dull eyes. Someone banged on the front door and then went away. Gradually the everyday sounds of the world amassed to fill the silence and life went on like an insult. Let it never be said that Mary would let an insult go unavenged.

  Sarah had a spare key to the flat. She buried her sister in a fine silk dress and a coronet of fresh white flowers.

  The Girl in the Deryn Du

  The new settlement, which had hitherto been known as Parrytown (after the Parry Glamorgan Colliery Company), found itself in need of an officially recognised name. To this end, a committee formed of members of the Parish Council and representatives of the area’s commercial interests crowded into the Deryn Du public house on January 17, 1895. After much heated debate and the abandonment of many fanciful suggestions, the name ‘Aberuffern’ was proposed and seconded. As to the identity of the proposer and the explanation of the Committee’s unanimous acceptance of his proposal, these matters are lost to history; unfortunately the Secretary fell victim to a sudden malady and had to be escorted to his home, thus leaving this portion of the proceedings unminuted. When interviewed in later years, the surviving committee members had but little recollection of events, so the naming of Aberuffern must remain a matter for conjecture only.