Collected Plays and Teleplays (Irish Literature)

by Flann O'Brien

  PAT: I wouldn’t say that Mr. Kelly took the job in hand.

  BURKE: Your humble servant got the rat. But if a crocodile was brought in, or a Great Borneo spider, or a baby gorilla, they would all be Kelly’s work.

  PAT: I must be off. (Rises.) I’m damn sorry that things are like this. It’s a lousy fix for a man to be in. Sorry I can’t think of some way I could help.

  BURKE: Oh indeed I know you are, Pat. Sure I suppose I’ll have to put up with it, for the present, anyhow. The so-and-so is so mean, if you understand me.

  PAT: (At door.) Ah, I know. Well the best of luck now.

  (He departs. BURKE takes up a tape and carries on some measurement operations on the object on his table, humming softly. Suddenly KELLY walks in and hangs coat and hat on back of door. He is about the same build as BURKE but very different physically, being quite bald, unshaven, and in manner obviously irascible by habit. His expression is sour, his voice unpleasant.)

  KELLY: Any message while I was out, Burke, or any letter?

  BURKE: No, Mr. Kelly.

  KELLY: The curse of God on those damned tinkers in Camden Street. They swore they’d pay today.

  BURKE: Nobody called, Mr. Kelly.

  KELLY: It’s a holy wonder the rate collector didn’t call roaring for his thirty-nine pounds.

  BURKE: (Pointing to object on his table.) Do we want this dog’s mouth open?

  KELLY: Do the damned thing any way you like.

  (There is something on KELLY’S own table and he is now bent attending to it.)

  KELLY: (Suddenly.) By God, Burke, a man would need to have a right pair of eyes in his head to see what he’s doing in this place. You’ve been at those dirty cigarettes again.

  BURKE: I’ll smoke when I choose, Mr. Kelly. Only another thousand million people or so are doing the same thing.

  KELLY: They’re not doing it in my workshop, Burke.

  (The shop bell rings and KELLY goes out. He returns nearly at once and roars:)

  KELLY: Hand me that cursed bird over there, Burke.

  (BURKE does so and KELLY goes out with it and comes back very soon.)

  KELLY: Yes. When an odd customer does pay on the nail, he certainly expects service. Where is my cursed scissors?

  BURKE: On the shelf behind you.

  KELLY: Yes. I might as well be playing blind man’s bluff here. I can’t see what I’m doing. Do you know what it is, Burke? You have made the air in this room taste like a sewer.

  BURKE: I don’t know what sewers taste like.

  KELLY: And do you know why?

  BURKE: Do I know why what?

  KELLY: Do you know why? Because you are only a slob.

  BURKE: What was that you called me?

  KELLY: Because you are only a slob. A slob.

  (KELLY is stooped at his table, his back towards BURKE. The latter picks up a heavy metal bar and smashes him over the back of the head with it. KELLY collapses face down behind the table. In a frenzy BURKE continues to bash him on the head. He stops and looks towards the camera, aghast.)

  BURKE: (Hand to head.) Good Lord! Great Lord! I’ve killed the bastard. Heavens Almighty.

  (Camera forward to show close up BURKE rolling KELLY on his back, and checking pulse at wrist.)

  BURKE: (As if talking to self.) He’s dead all right. Gone for his tea. Dead. Stone dead. I suppose I smashed the skull. Smashed it up like an egg shell. Well, well, WELL.

  (Goes to back of door and struggles into raincoat and hat. He is very frightened.)

  BURKE: Me a murderer, ah? Lord save us! I must do some thinking. Maybe a drink might help.

  FADE OUT.

  END OF PART 1.

  PART 2

  BURKE is seen sitting alone at a table in the shabby lounge of a pub. A few nondescript other customers are seen at adjacent tables; they are talking but no sound is heard from them. BURKE is drinking whiskey and occasionally presses a bell and points to his empty glass when the attendant arrives. He is frowning, gazing about unseeingly, lighting cigarettes, and sometimes propping his head on a hand. His voice is heard on the sound-track conveying his lines of apprehensive thought.

  BURKE’S VOICE: I always knew it was only a matter of time. Sooner or later he’d push me to it. I was a fool that I didn’t get out years ago, even if it meant digging holes in the road for a living. Digging holes? Faith and I might be digging a hole yet, not for a living . . . but for the dead. Lord save us, what a damned mess this is! There he is, dead on the floor of the shop. There he’ll have to stay, all night. Well, he’ll be safe and sound, I suppose. He’s in no danger. Suppose there was a fire in the building, though, and the brigade had to break in? And the Guards with them? Even if they did find him dead, what is there to connect me with it? Maybe I should have shown the place messed about, with some odds and ends missing, to make it look like a robbery. Still, there’s hardly anything worth stealing. Damn it! Had Kelly money on him, or anything else valuable? Why didn’t I go through his pockets? What about his big turnip of a watch? Solid gold, no doubt about that. All the same, it’s still there, safe as a house.

  Dammit, suppose there was a real robbery, or an attempt at it during the night. Two thugs break in and start going over the place. But they make noise and show lights or something. The Guards hop in on top of them and nail them. But what’s this? They find Kelly’s body. Your men are hauled off and charged. Not only for attempted larceny or burglary or something, but also with murder. The police would even produce a blunt instrument. That charge would take some answering. While they were rooting about in the shop, Kelly walked in and surprised them. They got into a panic and hit him with that iron rule, the nearest thing to hand. Makes sense all right. If they had a good man appearing for them, they might get off with manslaughter. I’d give evidence myself of course. The last time I had seen Mr. Kelly, he was in his usual health and good spirits. So far as I knew, he had not an enemy in the world. Lord, I wouldn’t half lie in that witness box.

  Yes, the body. That’s always the trouble with a killing, even an accidental one. The body. The tell-tale body. In this case the body with the fractured skull, injuries that couldn’t be caused by a fall. The dead, silent body that tells a tale. Lord God Almighty, I wonder how many innocent men were sent to the scaffold just because a dead man can’t say outright how he was killed and exactly who it was that killed him? Instead, those Sherlock Holmes types would have to follow their clues, get bits of hair and dried blood analysed and so on and so on to find the answer to the question Who killed Cock-Robin? And then get the wrong answer. Next thing his Lordship puts on the black cap. Have you anything to say as to why sentence of death should not be pronounced against you? And the poor so-and-so in the dock, innocent as a lamb unborn! What a sad, sorry mess.

  After a few more jars I’d better go home to the digs and go to bed. But bring a few babies, because some hard thinking must be done about Kelly’s body. Yes, and done tomorrow. Even a small delay could be dangerous. That furnace seems to be the answer. A machine that can incinerate the bones and guts of a buck deer should be well able to deal with a mere man. Certainly there can be no question of getting Kelly out of the workshop and out of that house. Even very late at night it would be far too dangerous. Even if I got him into a box, even cut in two to make him look smaller, I couldn’t carry it without help. Call a taxi and ask the taximan to give a hand? Oh Lord no. No, no, no. Far too dangerous. A witness, a deadly witness. He asked me, sir, to help him to carry the heavy box to the car sir. No, that wouldn’t do at all.

  But wait a minute.

  Wait a minute now. There’s another way of doing this. Yes, indeed—another way. An artistic way, too. Lord, funny I didn’t think of it before. Yes, yes, this IS a brilliant notion. Only the likes of me would think of it.

  (Here he chuckles, takes long, slow drink and orders another by gesture.)

  But I’ve thought of it now. And tomorrow is the day. I’ll do it tomorrow. Go in, lock up behind me, and spend the whole day on th
e job. And finish it. This is serious but all the same it’s nearly funny. I’ll treat Mr. Kelly in his personal workshop as if he was one of his own “patients,” as if he was a dead, pet chimpanzee. I’ll gut him! I’ll gut the bastard! I’ll put bones, entrails and all into the furnace. But I’ll keep the skin and the head and all the rest. And I’ll treat the skin, treat it as I would any other skin. And when it’s ready, I’ll put it on. Why not? We’re almost exactly the same build. And any skin is a bit elastic, anyway. Yes indeed.

  (He drinks deeply and looks better.)

  Yes Burke goes into that shop in the morning. But he doesn’t come out in the evening. Kelly comes out—fit, hale and hearty. And Kelly goes home to his own digs. Yes his own digs. His mad witch of a landlady wouldn’t notice any difference, not if he came home with horns sticking out of his head. I’ve met her, I know her well. I’ll take on the other lodgers gradually, one by one. Kelly kept to himself a lot, I know that too. And if he behaved in the digs as he did in the shop, there wouldn’t be any rush there for his friendship. He mightn’t even be on speaking terms with anybody.

  Ah yes, it seems easy. It looks even obvious now. Why didn’t it come into my head before? The only thing I must watch is Kelly’s accent, his mean manners, his shifty looks. I know I’m good at taking off other people but this job needs great care and cunning. Thank God Kelly took a drink.

  Well, that’s that. Tomorrow I become Kelly. That night I go home and sleep in Kelly’s bed. I work as usual the following day. I go home for Kelly’s tea in the evening. That night I’ll go to the club. Yes sir, business as usual! The sooner Kelly is seen by everybody the better. And that club. When I joined it I didn’t know Kelly was a member. He thought I did, and that I joined it to watch him, to snoop on him, to keep an eye on the passes he makes on the lady members. The damned cheek of him. It was to get away from him that I went in there at all. Ah, but all that’s over. Over and done with. I think I’ll have a last drink, a large one. (Presses bell.) Burke’s last drink in a public house. The most solemn moment in Burke’s life. I’ll have to drink to the health of Kelly, and a long life.

  FADE OUT.

  END OF PART 2.

  PART 3

  The scene is a common-room of a sleazy club. Only males are present. In the foreground is a full-sized billiards table on which a game of snooker is in progress. In the background there is a small bar, inset in the wall.

  Standing at the bar drinking whiskey is BURKE, though in appearance the dead spit of Kelly. He is thoughtful and morose in manner. Near him two other nondescript members are conversing but no sound is heard from them or from others concerned in the snooker game, which is seen intermittently.

  After the cameras have established the silent scene, BURKE is largely concentrated on. He is reflected sourly, and his thoughts are heard on the sound track:

  BURKE’S VOICE: Well, this is the queer set-up and no mistake. Nearly make you laugh. . . .

  Why do those lads play snooker if they don’t know how to score? Why isn’t the table reserved for people who know how to hold a cue? But they have their rights, I suppose. This club’s rotten with democracy. . . .

  I think everything’s still under control but I’ll have to be careful—damn careful. The price of freedom is eternal vigilance. Three days and two nights gone and no real slip-up yet. . . .

  But Lord, what a damn fool I was to sleep in Kelly’s bed the first night, and in Kelly’s skin! How was I to know that his damned pelt, in the heat of the bed would stick to my own skin, marry it, and become part of me? Why did I do that at all? One answer, of course—drink. DRINK! Yes, the old landlady is a half-wit, and half blind into the bargain, but I had no right to bank on that. . . .

  My luck was in, and that’s all.

  I’ll have to go easy on this drinking. It leads to carelessness maybe makes a man go to sleep at the wrong time. And I’ve a lot of little things to concentrate on until I’ve learnt to take this situation as much as other people do—or seem to. I must—I MUST—practice Kelly’s handwriting and signature. Money and bills and accounts will have to be looked after with the greatest care. Thank God I’ve met that bank manager fellow a couple of times, even if he wasn’t too polite to me as poor Mr. Burke. I’ll keep away from him as far as I can but Kelly’s signature on a check WILL HAVE TO BE DEAD RIGHT. No mistake about it—DEAD RIGHT. Wouldn’t it be too damn awful to have some busibody coming along with talk about fraud and dud cheques—forgery by gob! That would be a sickener and no doubt. A man saves a farmer from his own mad bull and then the farmer prosecutes him for trespassing! That’s the ticket—the greatest care about little things. . . .

  Yes. Take this smoking. Kelly damned well hated cigarettes but nobody has yet passed any remark on the fact that I’m now seen smoking. Thank God for that. It was a risk. But at least I knew it was a risk. And it had to be taken. Lord . . . if I was to cut out the fags . . . in the middle of this how-are-ya . . . the nerves would be in tatters inside two hours. Well, even Kelly could change his mind about the fags. I’ll have a smart and a quick answer for any smart-alec that wants to pass any remark on it.

  I think I can see things more clearly now. Except for his lousy manners with me, Kelly was a negative type. He minded his own business and made no strong impression on anybody. He paid his way. He owed nobody money, and that meant nobody had any excuse for poking his nose into Kelly’s affairs. Very likely he hasn’t a friend in the world. Has he any relatives, I wonder? Isn’t it the mercy of God for me that he hadn’t a wife, or an old sick mother, or even a granny! . . .

  Then there’s that locked drawer in his bedroom. What would be in that, now, and where’s the key? Would he have an insurance policy, I wonder? Yes, that’s a thought. If he had, it might have a fat surrender value, if Kelly himself applied for it. Yes, indeed. But matters like that will have to wait. The handwriting must be perfected before we can begin any big new scheme. Safety first—that’s the watchword. Forcing open that locked drawer in the bedroom would be child’s play, but there need be no hurry with any of that class of scheme. . . .

  (The camera has returned to the table and dwells on the rather desultory snooker game, now in its final stages. But no sound is heard from it as BURKE, with KELLY’S voice, is heard continuing:)

  When things have blown over properly, I think a fortnight’s holiday away from everything would be a good idea. The seaside, I suppose . . . some nice, quiet place. Business is good and steady and when I get around to asking Kelly’s bank to send along a statement of account, I’m damn sure there will be plenty of cash stacked up there . . . yes, and any God’s amount of stocks and shares and that class of thing. . . . Whatever Kelly used to spend his money on, it certainly wasn’t in paying me a decent wage. B-b-blast him!

  Lord, I might be a snug well-to-do man at the heel of the hunt. By gob but this situation is nearly funny. If only I could be certain—CERTAIN—of everything. Everything properly packed up, everything snug, and no loose ends. Just one more month and all the little doubts should be wiped away. It’s just stupid, I suppose, for a man of my age to be dreaming about living happily ever after, like a young prince in a fairy-tale but, dammit, it’s natural, isn’t it? I deserve a few decent years in this world, I’m OWED them and that’s the plain truth. Even a dog is entitled to get sick of the life of a dog. I’ve had enough of bad times and bad luck. A few days ago I could have truly said that things were so bad they couldn’t get worse. Now they can only get better. So let’s cheer up. Maybe even Kelly felt a bit cheerful an odd time. It’s hard to imagine. Still. . . .

  (SOUND has become general as the snooker game ends. One player lays his cue on the table, the other retains his while both cheerfully approach BURKE (KELLY) at the little bar.)

  PLAYER NO. 1: (To steward.) Two halves, Charlie!

  PLAYER NO. 2: Well, Mr. Kelly, you weren’t paying much attention to that game of ours.

  BURKE: Well, you were long enough about it. Who won?

  NO. 2: You
r man here. Just a succession of flukes, of course. The usual.

  NO. 1: (Handing drinks.) Don’t mind him, Mr. Kelly. I’m more charitable and I’ll say it was a good game. Touch and go to the last. A black ball game. Have a cigarette, Mr. Kelly.

  BURKE: Thanks, Mr. Buckley.

  NO. 2: I see you’re taking a great interest in tobacco, at last. Time for you.

  BURKE: Ah, I do smoke a fair bit when I’m working. But these small clubrooms get pretty fuggy with too much smoking. However, we can’t have everything.

  NO. 1: I was pulling on butts at school, before I was out of short pants. And many a wallop I got for it.

  NO. 2: School is where most of us learnt the wrong things.

  BURKE: Overdoing things, lads—that’s the main thing we’ve got to look out for. Backing horses, drinking, smoking, going to shows and so on—they’re all perfectly all right provided they’re done in reason.

  NO. 2: And so say all of us.

  NO. 1: Well, that table there, Mr. Kelly, is one thing I don’t mind if I overdo a bit. I’m now the champion with my cue in my hand. Care for a game?

  BURKE: Thanks. I’d be delighted.

  NO. 2: Right. Billiards? A hundred up?

  BURKE: Snooker if you’d prefer it.

  NO. 2: But, Mr. Kelly, I thought billiards was YOUR game. Mean to say, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you at snooker before.

  BURKE: I don’t play it here often, but you might be surprised.

  NO. 2: Well, I’m glad to hear it. Snooker is a better game.

  BURKE: It’s not a better game but it’s an easier game. Anybody can pot a ball but you have to do a lot of thinking before you play a shot at billiards.

  NO. 1: All right. Wait till I fix up the reds.

  (He fetches wooden triangle and sets about arranging triangle of red balls and spotting the colours.)

  NO. 2: Well, well, Mr. Kelly. A dab at snooker and billiards, and then non-stop on the fags. What next, I wonder? Drugs?

  BURKE: There’s nothing wrong about being able to play a decent game of snooker.