Right now, however, terrible things
were happening. Father Rudden was pulling another cork to shreds and pouring
the wine.
' Wine
,' the
priest was saying, ' is liquid Christianity, there was never a bigger argument
against the teetotallers than the Miracle at
Five glasses clinked. 'Schlaunty!' they chorused. They all drank. They drank
again. Then, several more agains, then a series of agains followed by one long
permanent again. Father Rudden was starting to rock unsteadily. Laughter was
coming more frequent, and an occasional song. The conversation got around to
religion.
' I say,' said the suddenly
enlightened Milligan, T say that Roman Catholicism is losin' ground.'
' Ha, Ha,' said the priest,' losing
ground ?
With 500 millions at the last
count
?'
O'Brien rubbed his chin. 'That's the trouble, it's like commercial
television, never mind what kind of audience you got as long as you got plenty
of 'em. The world is only concerned with numbers, not quality. It's a
biological fact that you can't have numbers and quality. All things that
continue in numbers run to seed. If not to seed they become a commune of
non-thinkers like ants or bees.'
The priest drained his glass. 'Rubbish!'
he said, wiping his mouth.' Catholicism is still a great power.'
' I
don't
think so Father. Look, the Catholic Missionaries were in China three hundred
years before Communism, and now?
Where are the Catholics in
Out!
Finished!'
'We'll be
back, you see.'
'Not without a war Father,'
interjected Rafferty. 'And that's no way to get converts.'
Father was busy opening another
bottle of
wine,
he spoke from the dark recess of the
room.
' We'll
have
to wait and see, that's all that's left, wait and see.' He reappeared with a
fresh bottle.
' Before
I open this one, I want to make
an appeal. We are in need of a fighting fund to help us with accessories. I
should like to start by asking for donations right now!'
There was a grim, long, embarrassing
silence.
'Come, come,
come
?
I'm not asking for hundreds of pounds, just a little to start with. Will
someone say ten
shillings ?'
'I can say it, Father,' said
Milligan, 'but I haven't got it.'
'I've got it,' thought Dr Goldstein,
'but I'm not going to say it.'
O'Brien had opened his wallet and
without a word spread three one-pound notes on to the table in front of the
priest.
'There, Father, that's for the lot of
us, I had a good win at the races today.'
With his hand shaking, and silenced
by the vastness of the amount, the Father picked up the money.
' God
bless
you, O'Brien, dis will cover everything.'
The glasses clinked again, the light
from the lamp shone through the wine, and the ceiling was dancing with the
leaping red rubies from below.
'This will have to be the last one,
early Mass tomorrow, Schlaunty!' said the priest as he drained his glass, made
the sign of the cross and fell backwards into the dark.
'Ah, the poor man's tired,' said
O'Mara, picking the priest up and carefully placing him on his bed. Milligan
removed the priest's shoes.
'God God,' said the Milligan, 'if I
had dat many holes in me socks, I'd use 'em as mittens.'
Little did he know that the priest
frequently
did.
Money! That was the trouble. Money!
Chorusing good nights to the sleeping
priest, the five took the road home.
It was a high, crisp, starry night,
lovers were locked warmly in their doorways,
noiseless
was the moon-mad sea. Merrily the five followed the road to Puckoon that
streamed silver ahead of them. Goldstein clung to O'Mara, O'Mara to Rafferty,
Rafferty to O'Brien and O'Brien on to Milligan and his bike. This inebriated
daisy chain stumbled forward. Although the general direction seemed to be
forward, a lot of the time was taken in falling backwards and sideways;
however, they were gradually making progress in all directions. Flanking the
road was the dank dark of the Puckoon Woods.
'This is just the night for
poaching,' said Rafferty. 'Come with me.'
He turned them sharp into a ploughed
field and made for the trees.
' I
got a
few rabbit traps along here and one big fox trap.'
'Do you use them torture traps,
Rafferty?' asked O'Mara.
' Gins
?
God no.
Only bastards use them. I
makes
me own, painless and the animal can't hurt itself. I sent the plans to the
r.s.p.g.a., dere tinkin' about it.'
Milligan stumbled. 'Bugger-what's the
r.s.p.g.a
. ?'
'Well,' said Rafferty, climbing a
stile. 'It's supposed to be a society for the prevention of cruelty to animals,
the idea is good, but I found that most of the people who join are dog lovers,
that or cats, the rest of
the
animal
kingdom can go to hell. Mind you, there are some real fine members.'
The boots of the revellers were now
great puddings of clay and mud.
' How
much
farther ?' gasped O'Brien.
' I
got me
traps all along der banks of the river in dem trees,' and he pointed off into
the dark. Unsteadily they plodded towards the river, their travels interjected
with drunken singing, frequent halts and bawdy laughter as some took to
spraying the trees.
'For dis relief, much tanks,
Horatio,' said Milligan, posturing and laughing hysterically.
Gulio Caesar presents The World's
Finest Animal Circus. The words were painted six foot high in modest black and
white.
Circus master Gulio Caesar, ' King of
the Ring', was a worried man. Constantly at war with fleas that continually
transferred their allegiance from the monkeys to him, he slept with a tin of Keatings
by his bed. At midnight he awoke scratching and cussing, when through his
caravan window he made the awful discovery. The cage was open and the beast had
gone.
Scratching with one hand and dialling
with the other, he phoned the r.s.p.c.a.
Awakening from his
veterinary slumbers, Inspector Felix Wretch groped in the dark for the jangling
instrument.
'Hello?'
' This
is a
- Gulio Caesar, could I please spik wid your husband ?'
'Me husband speaking,' said Mr
Wretch.
'Gooda, one of my black-a panthers
has escape.'
Mr Wretch gulped himself into
consciousness. 'I'll meet you outside the police station right away in ten
minutes.'
'Right,' the line clicked to
immutability.
Hurriedly Mr Wretch pocketed a humane
killer, a phial of liquid and a hypodermic,
then
stepped into his trousers and into the night.
Into the wood along the river bank
stumbled five happy drunks.
Suddenly Rafferty stopped.
'Shhh, there's something in me trap,'
he said excitedly.
The information silenced the singing.
Cautiously they approached towards a black sleek shape crouching on the ground.
' It's
a-'
commenced Rafferty, but was cut short by a scarlet mouth emitting an unusually
loud growl. 'No, it isn't,' he concluded.
'It isn't what?' queried O'Brien.
' It
isn't
what I thought it was at first.'
'Oh?'
'It should,' went on Rafferty,
peering at the creature, 'it should be a fox.' The creature repeated a growl
loud enough to stop the five in their tracks. What it was they knew not, that
it was very big they knew, but what type of big they also knew not.
' I
don't
tink it's a goat,' Milligan said.
'You're right,' agreed Dr Goldstein.
'It's the wrong noise for a goat, if it was a goat it would go - ' (he drew a big
breath) ' - baaaaaaaaaaa, ba-aa a a a aaaaa
aa .'
'For
God's sake keep quiet, Doctor,' said Rafferty, who for the first time in his
poaching life was puzzled.
'
bbbbbbbbbbbbbaaaaaaaaaaa
!'
continued Goldstein. Kneeling on all fours he charged O'Brien's unsuspecting
seat.
'What in h - ' O'Brien started to say
as he fell forward. There was an inky black pause and a great splash. 'You
bloody Jewish idiot!' said O'Brien, wallowing-groping-stumbling-falling in the
shallow river waters.
' Gis
yer hand,' said O'Mara
pulling the soggy O'Brien to the bank.
'Feel if dere's any fish in his
pockets,' said the Milligan holding his stomach with laughter.
' Shhhhhhhhhhhh
!'
said Rafferty.
'I'll get you for dis, Goldstein,'
said O'Brien. They were all silenced by a low, almost evil, snarl from the
beast. Rafferty took a coil of rope from his sack.' Here, little animal,' he
said advancing cautiously. The reply was a stomach-loosening roar.
Rafferty stopped uneasily and walked
back to the arguing, singing group. 'A thought just struck me,' said Rafferty.
'Is dere any wild wolves left in
'Now I think I can answer that,' said
Goldstein, ' Will someone strike a
light ?'
Milligan struck a match as the doctor
read from a small pocket encyclopaedia, unsteadily flicking the pages.
' Ahhhhh!' he said.' Listen, dere are
no wild wolves left in Ireland.
The last one was killed in 1785 in
MacGillikudie's Reeks by a German naturalist called Herman Von Loon. Oh,' he
read on, 'here's another bit of interesting data. In 1794 a black man called
Talmadge Frock crossed Ireland on a wooden roller skate and died of leg cramps.
He . . .'
Darkness followed a yell as the match
burnt Milligan's finger.
'What about gettin' this animal, I'm
gettin' cold,' O'Brien said.
Rafferty beckoned them all towards
the beast. 'I'll get this noose over his neck, den everyone take one leg each.'
They advanced unsteadily.
' Puss
, puss, puss,' said the Milligan, holding out his
hand.
'You're right, Milligan, it's a cat,
a black cat. Gad, he's had a good feed, look at the size of him.'
The animal sprang, uprooting the
trap, hitting O'Mara in the chest. O'Mara the giant got to his feet.
'No bloody pussy-cat's going to do
that to me.' He lashed out, struck the animal a pole-axe blow, and the panther
sank into unconsciousness.
The five split up. O'Mara paused only
once on the way, to throw a struggling panther into the charge room of the
police station.
There followed a series of ripping,
growls and screams, then came a shattering of glass as the night constable
dived through the window and ran up the road.
Two little men with the arse out of
their trousers were holding a mass meeting. They had both known better days but
not partaken in them. They were forced to admit that the glorious days of the
i.r.a
. were in decline.
'Comrades,' said Shamus Ford,
addressing his partner from a chair, ' I have good tidings. This new Customs
Post at Puckoon is a boon and a blessing to men. I have a plan, such a plan as
Brian Boru would be glad to be associated in.'
Looking at him, adoringly, was the
sad, middle-aged, unshaven little face of the faithful follower, Lenny
Braddock. He scratched himself furiously, at the same time giving off a few
supporting
'Hear hears'. Shamus banged his mittened
hands across his body. The deserted barn was draughty, dirty, and dungy, but
rent free. Shamus went on with great fire:
' To
bury
the stiffs dese days, they'se got to takes 'em through dat new Customs Post,
it's a gift from heaven, don't you see?'
'No, I don't see, Shamus.'
'Pay attention den, gi's a puff on
yer fag . . . ta . . . Our contacts on the other side says they're short of
explosives.
Right?'
'
Ifyousayso. . .'
' I
do. Now
normally, without the convenience of a coffin, you'd have yer luggage searched
and yer pockets.'
'That's true, that's
true ..
.
can
I have me fag back?'
'Now.
If we
could get a coffin and rig up a phony burial, we could carry enough gelignite
stuff in dat coffin to blow Ulster back into the Republic - you see?'
' Gor
! By
gor! Dat is a fine plan boyo! A fine plan! I tink this is a turning point in
the history of Ireland. Can I have me fag
back ?'
'Wot we need is a coffin - don't
snatch like that.'
'Me fag-'
'A coffin!
Now, dere's a mortician in Delarose Street . . . you got them counterfeit pound
notes? Good.'
' Can
I have
me fag back ?'
' Of
course,
we got to make the plan watertight.' Shamus reclined back on his straw throne.
'Tomorrow I'll make arrangements fer
der coffin.'
Suddenly, it was tomorrow. 'God,
doesn't time f l
y ?
' said
Shamus.
A recently lacerated constable with a
finely shredded seat to his trousers addressed Mr Gulio Caesar.
' Have
you lost a black panther, sir ?'
' Yes
, I
have - she's-a-gone.
Disastro!'
' I
think I
have made contact with the animal.'
The constable described his flight
from fur-covered death. 'The animal is lurking in the wood a mile south of the
church of St Theresa.'