Exit Unicorns

by Cindy Brandner

  Lutie took the pistol and handed it carefully to Mike who tucked it behind the bar and then did something he had not done in twenty years of owning the establishment; he poured two fingers of whiskey and neatly shot it down. Eamonn stood still rocking back and forth, a broken and tragic old figure. Lutie helped him down and to his chair where he slumped.

  “I lights a candle fer his soul an’ me own each Sunday,” he said looking at Lutie as though for absolution, “may God forgive us both fer all the wrongs we committed in the name of freedom, though I am inclined to believe,” he smiled weakly and without humor, “that God does not so much pay attention to the troubles of man.”

  Matty laid his hand on his old friends shoulder.

  “There now man ‘tis over, ye’ve told yer tale as it should be told, widout the rose-colored glasses, ‘tis well past time ye should have let Mick lay to rest, sure an’ he would not wish ye grievin’ this long. There is a giant or two left in this land after all ye know, ‘tis only the vinegar of old age makin’ ye think otherwise.” Matty turned and smiled gently at the drained faces around him, “Drink up lads, ye look as if ye’ve all been visited by a ghost. Men in this country have always made revolution, some with the gun like Eamonn an’ meself an’ some wid their pens an’ it seems to me that the men who breathe the fire of change through their pens are the more powerful. Jack Stuart is such a man,” he said quietly fishing out a slim green volume from the inside of his brown coat. On it stenciled in pale gold lettering were the words ‘The Last Revolutionary- A Volume of Verse by Jack Stuart’. He opened it reverently and putting a pair of battered glasses on his nose, began to read in a soft and melodic voice.

  Old Mad Meg stood by the sea

  A thousand years stood she

  Her memory deep, her anger long

  A cunning lass was she

  The lives of women

  Held in her hand

  The lives of men

  Beneath her feet.

  Old Mad Meg danced by the sea

  A thousand years danced she

  Her skin flame, her touch burn

  A threnody sang she

  The fates she wove

  With crimson thread

  Her laughter cruel

  Flew free.

  Old Mad Meg died by the sea

  A thousand years died she

  Her youth fled, her body scorned

  A lullaby heard she.

  Her eyes were blind

  Her voice was silenced

  Her pagan heart

  No longer given beat.

  Old Mad Meg birthed by the sea

  A thousand years birthed she

  She came in blood, she came in pain

  And her pagan heart sings free.

  Matty closed the book as carefully as he had opened it and said, “He speaks revolution an’ he speaks it for the people, in a language that flows in their blood, so man do not tell me there are no giants left in this land. For as long as Jack Stuart holds a pen there is one left among us.”

  “Aye, perhaps there is,” said Eamonn in a whisper.

  “Well gentlemen,” said Lutie with a regret filled sigh, “as lovely as it has been ta be in the presence of sich as yerselves, de Fadder an’ meself must be shovin’ off, we’ve an airly mornin’ meetin’ wid da Cardinal hisself, ‘e’s hopin’ da Fadder here can cure his hemorrhoids fer dey’ve resisted da ministrations of da medicinal community for torty an’ five years. Ye’ve all been most ‘ospitable, our tanks to yez. Fadder Bunrattey,” he nodded deferentially at the Father who smiled benevolently at all and sundry before making an airy and not completely accurate cross in the air above their heads. They moved towards the door then, this strange couple, Father Bunrattey with ‘Making the U.K.’s bread rise higher for twenty years,’ stamped in red and blue across the width of his backside and Lutie’s back bearing the not altogether comforting message ‘Jesus was a Beatnik.’

  “Feckin’ pair of nuts,” was Matty’s unromantic assessment as the men of the Sniffey Liffey resumed their drinking. All excepting Ben Hanrahan who reaching into his pocket to pay his tab, found nothing within, roared a few uncomplimentary things about the recently departed pair and then lumbered as quickly as a man of his size might out the door.

  “Well then lads,’ Mike said genially as he took a swipe at the bar with a rag, “it’s been a rare evenin’ altogether then hasn’t it?”

  Lutie O’Toole readjusted his wig and sat down to catch his breath, while Father Joseph Jesus Mary Bunrattey lit a badly needed cigarette.

  “I see ye managed to shed yer reservations about our little act quite quickly,” Casey said, eyes watering as he let out the first lungful of smoke.

  “Give me one of those,” Jamie said putting up a hand to catch the pack of cigarettes Casey threw at him. “How much time have we got?”

  “I give the bastard a few minutes to realize he’s missin’ his wallet an’ then another fifteen to figure out where we’ve gone an’ then ten more for his lack of speed. So altogether we’ve about half an hour on him.”

  “He didn’t seem altogether brilliant,” Jamie said, wiping a hand across his forehead, leaving a swatch of white in its path, rimmed by bronze foundation. “How the hell did you know so much about the man?”

  “Went to school with him, was thick as the day is long then an’ it would appear nothin’s changed. Thought he was my best friend, followed me all about the schoolyard, nearly ruined my reputation. Was a bit surprised to see him there, truth be told.”

  “Are you certain he’s our link?” Jamie asked, pulling one earring at a time off his tender ears.

  “Not entirely, but he’d have the connections, he’d never much backbone it’s possible he could be someone’s flunky.” Casey looked about, eyes narrowed against the dark.

  They were sitting in a back lane that stunk virulently of stale food and urine, both animal and human. It was as far, Jamie thought, as he could possibly get from his Belfast, if not in distance then certainly in atmosphere. It was also a brisk twenty-minute walk to Casey’s home. A place Casey seemed in no great hurry to reach.

  “She’ll kill me,” he’d said in reply to Jamie’s question of why he didn’t go home first. Jamie thought he’d personally risk it for a hot shower.

  In twenty minutes, they readjusted their disguises and waited. Ben Hanrahan while not, as Jamie had pointed out, terribly brilliant, had a certain cunning and an ability to follow a trail like a bloodhound. It was who trailed him that was of interest to them however, not Ben himself.

  Neither was prepared for the sight of Jimmy Mack, who came into the alley with no more warning than the glowing tip of his cigarette.

  “Gentlemen,” he said and Jamie could hear Casey’s sharp intake of breath beside him, “I believe ye have something that belongs to my friend here.”

  “Do we?” Casey said, stepping out so that he stood in the dim light over the back entrance of a shop. He pulled his glasses off with slow deliberation and then stepped out of the makeshift cassock and faced his opponent squarely. “An’ what is it ye have that is mine, Jimmy?”

  Jamie could see the man raise his eyebrows and tip his head to the side, lighting a second cigarette off the butt of the first one. He took the time for a casual puff on it before replying. “Yer so far over yer fockin’ head on this one Casey Riordan, so far over that ye can’t see worth shit.”

  “I’ve a fairly good idea that’s what I’m lookin’ at now. Where the fock are my guns Jimmy?”

  “Why,” Jimmy walked further into the alleyway, “don’t ye ask yer friend there? I daresay he knows a thing or two about it, don’t ye Lord Muck?” his voice floated like viscous oil through the heavy, stagnant air, ripe with decay.

  Casey did not so much as turn an inch in Jamie’s direction.

  “I want to know where ye hid them Jimmy, they’ll do ye no good, ye’ve burned yer bridges with the army an’
ye know it.”

  “Maybe I know where the guns are an’ maybe I don’t an’ maybe,” Jimmy blew smoke into Casey’s face, “I’ve information more interestin’ than a boatload of guns.”

  “Aye?” Casey said harshly, “I’m listenin’.”

  “Ye’ve been searchin’ for a particular set of men, four to be exact, four names that no one will tell ye.”

  “Aye, go on,” Casey said and Jamie could feel a slight shift in the air that indicated Jimmy Mack now had the upper hand.

  “I can give ye what ye want man, if yer willin’ to give somethin’ in return?”

  “What might that be?” Casey asked, tone carefully neutral.

  “Only a set of blind eyes on yer part. They tell me yer tryin’ to clean up the streets a bit, usin’ the strong-arm tactics of the army to make people watch their step. They say every crime, no matter how small, gets reported back to ye. I’ve a little organization of my own that has operated with the blessin’ of yer predecessors for some time now an’ I’d like to keep it that way.”

  “Are ye sellin’ drugs?” Casey asked, voice deadly quiet.

  “Things to cure an’ things to kill, dependin’ what ails ye. I sell hope in liquid form. I’ve a good solid client base; I don’t need to make new customers. All ye have to do is pretend we never had this conversation an’ I’ll tell ye who raped yer wife an’ beat yer brother to a pulp.”

  Jamie could see Casey struggle visibly to keep his hands from Jimmy Mack’s neck.

  “Ye’ve a nerve ye bastard, ye expect me to lead my own people to the slaughter like lambs?”

  “I thought that was the specialty of the IRA,” Jimmy replied smoothly, “slaughterin’ that is.”

  “I cannot deal in these terms,” Casey said and Jamie noticed a slight movement in the shadows behind Jimmy Mack.

  “Aye well,” Jimmy crushed the butt of his cigarette out in the palm of his hand, “then I suppose ye’ll never know will ye? They tell me the lad quite enjoyed his dalliance with yer wife, it’s a pity then ye’ll never meet. There’s only the one left ye know, the other three have mysteriously disappeared. It’s almost as if someone is takin’ care of yer business for ye Casey, ye might want to ask yerself why someone would be inclined to do so. Of course ye could simply ask yer friend there.”

  There was a great splintering that severed the air and Jamie only had time to see a surprised looking Jimmy Mack sink quietly to the pavement, before Casey grabbed his arm and said, “Run.”

  Jamie, seeing the wisdom of the suggestion, did as he was bid. Ran through blind alleys and deserted streets, tripping over a keg left outside a pub, only to have Casey haul him mercilessly to his feet and tell him to keep going. Ran until his lungs were seared and burning, with only the occasional landmark leaping out at him to remind him that this was the city he lived in. Stopping quite suddenly as Casey came to a dead halt ahead of him and bent over cursing volubly.

  “Jaysus H. bloody Christ!”

  “What,” Jamie just managed to squeak out, watching in mystification as Casey did a rather undignified dance in the dark alleyway they’d stopped in.

  “I’ve been shot in the arse, that’s what an’ it hurts like bleedin’ bloody hell.”

  “Shot?” Jamie echoed stupidly, wondering how he’d missed the transpiring of a second bullet.

  “That’s what I said isn’t it,” Casey replied, voice biting despite his ragged breathing. “Must have passed right through the bastard an’ caught me as I was turnin’. Did ye happen to get a look at the man who fired the gun?”

  “Not enough,” Jamie said, noting with trepidation the dark stain that was flowering out across the back of Casey’s trousers. “Did you?”

  “No,” Casey expelled a long shaky breath, “though somethin’ about him seemed familiar, I couldn’t get a fix on him though he was too far in the shadows an’ I’ll warrant wasn’t too eager to have his face seen.”

  “You think you know him then?”

  “Maybe,” Casey grimaced as he tried to stand upright, “maybe I only want to think that I do. I’ll tell ye Jimmy Mack came as a bit of a shock.”

  Jamie looked about the street, slick and glistening in the dark. The air was heavy and swollen with the promise of rain and he was as exhausted as he could ever remember being.

  “Do you think it’s safe to go home now?” he asked.

  “As safe as anywhere else, unless ye count havin’ to face my wife,” Casey said a decided amount of resignation in his words. “Ye’ll come with me then,” he asked, “it’s only that I’m bleedin’ like the proverbial pig here an’ feelin’ a bit faint.”

  “Aye,” Jamie replied longing for the comfort of his own bed, “I’ll come with you.”

  Ten minutes later they were standing outside the familiar red door, Casey looking rather green about the gills and Jamie not entirely eager to face the music that lay on the other side. It was Jamie who finally knocked, three precise polite taps on the door.

  “She may be sleepin’, “ Casey said hopefully.

  The door swung inward with a violent swish. “She,” said the figure in the doorway, “has not slept in four damn days.”

  “Now darlin’—” Casey began.

  “Get in off the street,” she said sharply and they meekly obeyed.

  She flicked on a light and they flinched from the merciless onslaught of brightness.

  “Oh so you’ve brought a friend then have you?” she asked, glaring at Jamie with such ferocity that he moved closer to Casey.

  “I see you’re both alive and not in any present danger of dying.”

  “No but if ye’d just hear us out—” Casey began in a wheedling tone.

  She silenced him with a glare that would have evaporated a lesser man.

  “Not another word Casey Riordan, so help you God, not another word.” She looked down at the floor and turned quite suddenly white. “What is that?”

  “Blood,” Casey replied matter-of-factly, “I’ve been shot in the rear end. Now darlin’ don’t look like that ‘tis only a flesh wound, I just won’t be sittin’ comfortably for a week or two. An’ I will,” he smiled sheepishly, “need some help gettin’ the bullet out.”

  “Will you?” Jamie could swear she almost smiled. “Well I believe your compatriot here can help you with that. You,” she turned to Jamie, “had best wash your hands; you look like something the cat dragged in.”

  Sooner than he would have liked, Jamie was confronted with a bare, white buttock that looked as if it had been bitten by a large-toothed dog.

  “Disinfectant?” he asked weakly.

  “I believe you’ll find it in the hatbox,” she said sweetly and left him to confront the bullet alone while she went to the kitchen to make tea.

  “Tis only relief that’s makin’ her so sharp,” Casey said amiably as Jamie rummaged about in the infamous hatbox.

  “Grab the poteen, it’s the highest alcohol content, it’s in the little brown bottle.”

  Jamie accordingly did so.

  “Let’s get it over with then,” Casey said with grim determination, injured buttock clenching despite his show of bravado.

  “Right then,” Jamie took a deep breath and poured the clear liquid onto the wound. He had to credit Casey; he only let out one small yelp before fainting.

  Pamela came into the room, holding a pair of tweezers and a razor blade. “Boiled,” she said and laid them down beside Casey’s still form.

  “He’s passed out,” Jamie said helplessly.

  “Best under the circumstances I’d think, wouldn’t you? Now shouldn’t we get the bullet out before he comes around again?”

  Sensible if not welcome advice, Jamie thought and set about his task, fingers slippery with perspiration and nerves. Casey mercifully did not wake up until the bullet, small and blunt headed, lay on the table beside
the bed where he lay face down, buttock neatly gauzed and taped.

  Pamela sat on the bed beside him, silent. Casey reached with his good hand and groped about until she placed one of her own in it.

  “Tis alright darlin’ it’ll take moren’ a bullet in the arse to knock me down.”

  “That’s precisely what I’m afraid of, you great big silly bastard,” she said and burst into tears. Jamie, surgical skills no longer needed, quietly left the room and shut the door.

  He took a drink of water and was half out the door when Pamela’s voice stopped him.

  “Where the hell do you suppose you are going?”

  “Home?” he said.

  “Not until the two of you have sat down and told me where the hell you’ve been the last four days and why it occurred to neither of you to pick up a phone. And seeing as Casey’s in no shape to talk about anything tonight it’ll have to be done in the morning. Besides you’ve no car,” she added sensibly as Jamie turned back into the entryway.

  In the uncompromising light of the kitchen, she looked frail and exhausted.

  “I thought you were both dead, Jamie,” she said voice drained with fear.

  “I’m sorry.”

  She nodded and bit her lip to stop a fresh batch of tears from welling up.

  “If you just point the way to the spare room,” he said awkwardly, longing to take her in his arms.

  “I’m sleeping in Pat’s room,” she said, a flicker of what almost seemed amusement in her face. “You are bunking in with Casey, my side of the bed is free. There’s fresh towels in the bath and a spare blanket on the foot of the bed. If you need anything else just ask Casey, he can tell you where it is.” She paused in the doorway and looked back over her shoulder, “Oh you might want to watch yourself as Casey’s hands tend to roam in his sleep.” With that, she shut the door with a firm click behind her leaving Jamie open-mouthed as a beached fish.