Chapter 6

Pat Farrell was, apart from being the brother-in-law of Larry Murphy, what they would usually refer to in Ireland as, a ginger. But no one I knew called him this to his face. And indeed it was not the word ginger that he had a problem with; for locally, because of his baking talents, he was referred to as the gingerbread man. And bake a fine cake he did, when he bothered to bake.

It was more the fact of misplaced stresses that perturbed him.

Ginger.

The word ginger in itself was nothing; but pronounced ging-er, with the stress on the coupling of the two g’s, it became quite another.

Ging-er.

It did.

And it was his usual custom to dispose of these unfortunate urchins with one foul swoop of his mother’s meat cleaver (she was a butcher).

—Bitches!

Many had gone out in this fashion.

—Hurrah!

Such as Cedric the Frenchman, whose mispronunciation may not have even be a mistake, but rather a cultural difference, a treacherous circumstance of enunciation.

An irrevocable contingency.

But that was his misfortune.

Not ours.

Farrell disposed of him with one foul swoop of his mother’s cleaver. Using the blunt end, so as not to make a mess, he struck him hard in the side of the face.

Oh mother, where art thou?

—Hurrah!

Cut him up in the toilets of Caulfield’s. And then buried the body under the floor boards. Putting them down again as if he was a carpenter.

—Give me that fucking hammer.

An eye on an eye.

—Gimme tha fuckin hamer.

Sure would they not have to dig him up again the next day? Because of the smell. And what about the toilets? Blood does not wash away easily. It stains. In a staining way.

Not at all.

—We can continue drinking then, can we not?

The bar man looked at him.

—Sure of course we can. Are the jacks clean?

—Mary will do them in the morning.

—In the morning? Ah would ya fuck off!

Farrell raised his four fingers.

Four pints.

Please.

Of course.

—The jacks will wait for the morning.

They laughed together. The barman. And Farrell. One fat. And the other thin. Farrell and the Barman.

—What was the last thing he said anyway?

Farrell supped.

—I don’t know. I was too busy kicking his teeth in.

The both laughed.

—We are the way we are!

They laughed again.

Haha. Hoho.

From across the bar there was a shout.

—Farrell. Farrell. There is a phone call for you?

—Who?

He says he is your father, said the man.

Farrell picked up the receiver.

—Hello.

—Farrell you old queer.

—Who the fuck is this?

—I’m surprised.

—Surprised?

He heard the slurring of words, of consciousness, going in and out, and in again.

—It’s Burke.

Silence.

—Burke?

—Do you know another?

—Of course not.

—Two things.

—Yes.

—We didn’t find Mooney.

—Tut tut.

—Now now.

—What else?

—We’re outside.

—Where?

—Across the road.

Farrell raised the receiver away from his ear. What this true? Could they really be outside? What did this mean?

—So you’re.

—Ah I’m only fucking with you.

He could hear laughter in the background. On the other end of the line. For there was no laughter where he was. None at all.

—Are you alright Patrick?

—Fuck off.

Silence.

There was no sound on the other end of the line. And then. As if by magic.

—Farrell.

He swallowed.

—Yes.

In fear and trepidation.

—We need you to go out to Mooney’s ma house. It’s on the Kilcock road.

—Right.

—Good lad. Shake her up a bit. Find out where he is. He’s not in Dalkey anyway. Not anymore.

—What do you want with Mooney anyway?

—Mind your fucking own.

—Fair enough.

—I’ll call you tomorrow. Or the next day. Or whenever the fuck I feel like it. And you better be there.

—Here?

—Don’t be a smart arse.

Then there really was no sound. Or rather the sound of absent voices. The hubbub of the bar came back to him and he looked up and saw them all going about there business.

—Are you alright Patrick?

He thought.

—Oh yes.

Smiling.

—I will be. I will be fucking fine.

He exited the bar out on to the main street and turned toward the hill and the canal.

The long walk home.

He would go to Mooney’s ma. But not to ruff her up. To find out where he was. And then help him. Who were those cunts to tell him what to do? Maybe Mooney had money. And it was more than Burke and Hare had ever given him. For what had they given him. Nothing. But veiled treats and constant heartache.

Angina.

I’m too young for this.

He closed over his coat, buttoned it, and walked, against the rain, into the darkness of the night.

God help him.