Fiction: “Pipe & Slippers”

Another short story, a never-before-published piece from my intensive burst of fiction-writing of the late 1990s:

 

PIPE & SLIPPERS

 

Fergal Daly took another gulp of beer from the can and placed it next to the two empty cans on the table, lay back on the couch and changed channels on the television with a lazy flick of the remote control switch. It was Friday night at last and after a very stressful week’s work he was utterly exhausted. Being a young solicitor with a well known Belfast city centre firm was certainly good for his bank balance, but nevertheless very tiring and

after the relative poverty of his student days and all the consistent work he’d put in he felt that he was entitled to splash out every so often.

The phone began to ring. He waited for a few seconds before reaching over to pick up the receiver, too tired to get up. He knew who it was going to be.

“Hello?” he answered wearily.

“Well boss, what’s the crack?” came the familiar voice on the other end of the line.

“Are you comin’ down or what?”

As ever Brendan Downey was in high spirits. He was now cutting his teeth as a newly qualified barrister in Dublin and although he was finding it difficult at times to secure work, being a mere small fry in a big pond he still seemed to be enjoying it. He had invited Fergal down for the weekend, but on this particular occasion the latter was just not up to it.

“I can’t, Brendan” was his disappointing reply. “I didn’t get back from the office till nearly seven this evening, I haven’t even eaten yet and I’m completely wrecked. There’s no way I could face a three hour drive tonight.”

He had made his point, but Downey still refused to give up.

“Sure isn’t there a bus leaving the Europa in half an hour? All you have to do is get yourself a quick bite, take a taxi down to the station and you’ll be in Dublin by eleven. I’ll meet you at the station.”

Full marks to the silver tongued young barrister for trying, but his old mate who was well used to these manipulative techniques was going to stand his ground.

“No, honestly, Brendan, I can’t. I’ve been up since half six this morning. I’ve been bogged down with this case all week, running back and forth to court like a blue-arsed fly and I’m-”

“Come on tae fuck!” Downey shouted, exuberantly and still as persuasive as ever.

“Naw, I can’t- “

Daly was beginning to get impatient, but an undaunted Downey interrupted again.

“You’re only young once, boss”, he countered, repeating yet another of his overused catch phrases designed to make the other party feel inadequate and guilty with their refusal to comply with his wishes, however unreasonable, a trick which always went down a treat in court.

“By the way,” he began, changing the subject somewhat, “Jude’s coming out with us. Have you met his new girlfriend, Françoise? She’s a lovely girl – you’ll have to meet her.”

There was a long pause at the other end of the line as Daly, who still refused to be turned was at a loss for words. The pregnant silence was broken by Downey.

“You could even try chatting her up” he suggested mischievously, half in jest and half seriously.

Daly was far from amused as this was now adding insult to injury. He did not relish the prospect of being the man in the middle; the single party caught between two happy couples.

Before hanging up Downey seized the opportunity to make a below the belt joke about a pipe and slippers, which his mate did not take too kindly to. A disillusioned Fergal Daly slammed down the receiver, knocking over the can of beer in the process, the contents of which spilled itself liberally over the carpet.

 

“FUCKIN’ HELL!” he screamed, attempting to sprint into the kitchen in search of a cloth, but instead merely succeeded in tripping over the phone’s extension lead and falling flat on his face.

No matter how much washing up liquid he rubbed into the carpet and no matter how hard he scrubbed the stain refused to move. He slumped down on the sofa in resignation and took another slice of pizza. His busy work schedule had forced him into eating junk food and convenience meals a little too often, when he just didn’t have the time or the energy to cook or go shopping and it wasn’t doing his health any good. All the same he couldn’t complain. Life had been good to him of late. The constant burning of the midnight oil during his impoverished student days had finally paid off and he was now living in a luxury flat in the fashionable Lisburn Road area of the city, ironically just a few streets away from the damp, mould-ridden student dive in Auckland Avenue which he’d once inhabited with Brendan Downey, Jude Mc Dermott and the irrepressible Seamus Heaney (no relation to the famous poet of the same name as he was often at pains to point out) not so many years ago. He was too tired to go out and as Murphy’s law dictated there was nothing worth watching on television. He changed channels on the remote control, just in time for the start of the Barry Kells Show, a popular regional television chat show with a plump, bearded host, whom elderly women adored, but whom Fergal Daly regarded as a pain in the arse. The show was cynically regarded as a chance for show-biz has-beens to make a desperate bid to relaunch their ailing careers or as a subtle hint to local up-and-coming talent that they shouldn’t give up their day jobs just yet. The night’s guest list read like a compendium of all that’s crap about provincial society.

Barry was greeted with an enthusiastic round of applause by the studio audience, made up almost exclusively of middle-aged and elderly couples. The floor manager thanks to his arsenal of cattle prods and electric shock batons purchased at a snip from the Chinese Ministry of Justice had done a good job.

“Thank you ladies and gentlemen, and have we got a great show lined up for you tonight. Later on I’ll be talking to a former paramilitary leader who’s found Jesus,[massive applause and much ooh-ing and aah-ing from the audience] a County Armagh woman with a talking lawnmower, [ditto] a young joiner from County Fermanagh who’s trying to make it big as a country and western singer [same again] a delightful young lady, once a big singing star in the ‘60s who’s battled long and hard with drink and drugs just to be with us tonight,[as above ad nauseum] and an ex-Northern Ireland football star who’s found a new career as a hypnotist [no response], but first of all it’s time for our phone-in bingo competition…”

Fergal switched off the television in disgust. This was what he was paying his licence fee for, he thought bitterly. Wait a minute, he didn’t have a TV licence.

“Shit!” he exclaimed, realising in horror what those official looking letters that he had allowed to pile up on his doormat had been about. A sudden thought struck him. The tax disc on his car was about to expire at some date in the near future. It might even have been yesterday. He took a sudden notion to go outside and check the exact date, not bothering to change out of his T-shirt, jeans and slippers, despite the pouring rain, but then he was only going to be outside for a few seconds. He slammed the door shut behind him and nervously ran down the stairs. Sure enough the tax disc was due to expire the next day. He would have to get it sorted out soon along with the TV licence. He reached into the hip pocket of his jeans for the key to his flat, suddenly curious to find out about the footballer turned hypnotist when the horrible truth dawned on him – he’d locked himself out, having been so eager to change from the discomfort of his working clothes that he’d forgotten to transfer the key into his jeans pocket. The only person in the world who had a spare key was his landlord who at this very moment was on holiday in Jamaica. He rang the doorbells of the adjoining flats repeatedly, hoping that the inhabitants could at least let him into the hallway, from where he could shoulder charge the door open, but as several minutes elapsed it became obvious to him that they had all gone out or were away for the weekend. He was left standing in the rain, wishing that he had taken up Downey’s offer, now soaked to the skin, a worthy contender for first prize in a wet T-shirt competition.

All of a sudden his face lit up at the sight of a silver Fiat Uno pulling in, its windscreen wipers waving furiously in the torrential downpour. Out stepped an attractive well dressed young woman, whom Fergal recognised as his new neighbour who had recently moved into the flat above. He’d only really spoken to her on the odd occasion, like the time he’d helped her carry her shopping up the stairs.

“Oh my God, Fergal! What are you doing out here in the rain? Did you lock yourself out?” she asked with genuine concern in her voice.

“Well…in a word, yeah I did, Irene” he replied, highly embarrassed, but nevertheless very glad to see her. In the era of political correctness the knight in distress was now being rescued by the damsel.

“You poor thing” she laughed. “Come on in and you can take a shower and get yourself dried. I’ve got the heating on.”

For a split second Fergal was about to refuse her kind offer in the typically Irish “No-you’re alright-I-wouldn’t-want-you-to-go-to-all-that-trouble” fashion when he realised that he had no other viable option. And was now almost pleased to be finding himself in this situation. The rain had stopped. As the celebrated northern English ukelele player George Formby would have said “turned out nice again, din’t it?”

 

 

 

The Hero of Ulster

About 10 years ago I went a through a brief, but intense phase of  fiction writing.  The manuscripts were left to gather dust over time – until I came up with the idea of publishing some of them online.  Although the tedious, yawn-inducing topic of Northern Irish politics is generally something I avoid like the plague on this site, it forms the basis for the following short story in a comical fantasy context.  Both sides of the sectarian divide have drawn on ancient myth and legend to justify their bankrupt causes and give themselves some kind of twisted historic mandate to lend legitimacy to their campaigns – a concept which inspired this story.

 

The Hero of Ulster

The freshly painted red, white and blue kerbstones glistened in the suffocating summer sun. Some kids were wheeling a barrow full of tyres – late additions to the mountain of rubble in the middle of a patch of wasteland. Perched on top was the crude effigy of a Polish priest wearing a Glasgow Celtic football shirt. Some of the older boys were practising familiar party tunes on their flutes. Yes, it was that time of year again in Northern Ireland. An elderly Polish priest resident in Italy, a dead Dutch king with a citrus plantation in the south of France and two Scottish football clubs…

Sammy was in high spirits. It was 1999. A new millenium was just around the corner, but more imminently, tonight would be his first “eleventh” night since his release from the Kesh. He’d just picked up his cheque from the dole and was looking forward to the night’s festivities. He’d invested his giros along with some money that he’d borrowed from a mate wisely in recent weeks. The shiny blue sheen of his brand new Rangers jersey (with the name “AMORUSO,” the Italian star emblazoned across the back) went perfectly with the newly acquired red hand tattoo on his arm set above the legend “For God and Ulster” – £80 well spent. He’d also made some money after having backed a winning horse at the bookies the previous day – a horse called Orange Lily. That would buy him a few games of snooker and get him plastered in time for the celebrations. He might even have enough left over to finance another trip to the bookie’s.

Three hours later he emerged from the pub. His vision was slightly blurred, but he was in control of his senses. He’d almost got into a fight over the how many points the pink ball was worth, but the barman wasn’t going to allow any trouble. Sammy was after all the undisputed snooker champion of his wing at the Maze, having won dozens of tournaments which had kept him in smokes for weeks. Three years in that place had however greatly reduced his capacity for alcohol consumption, but he’d certainly worked up an unquenchable thirst during that time. He would still have time to get a bite to eat, get cleaned up and ready for a proper night’s binge. As he turned the corner towards the chippy, a tall, muscular figure in strange attire seemed to have mysteriously appeared before him. They stared at each other for a few seconds before Sammy broke the ice in the usual Belfast fashion.

“What about ye, mate?”

The stranger seemed not to understand but reciprocated the greeting.

“Greetings, stranger” he replied in a deep booming voice. “I am Cúchulainn, the Hound of Ulster, son of Lugh and Deirdre and nephew to Conchubar MacNessa of Emain Macha. I have trekked for many days across the waters of the Boyne, the ford of Bude, son of Bain, through the grove of the nine wise hazel trees, the Dyke of the Black Pig and the Shankill Road, through field and forest, mountain and moorland to avenge my people.”

“You must be knackered after all that travelling, mate. It’s these bloody border roads. Any bother crossing the border? ’Cause they’re really clamping down these days with all that smuggling going on – you know like booze, fags, diesel an’ all that. I’m Sammy, son of Maggie by the way. Dunno who my da was though. So what is it that you do?”

“I have just awoken from my eternal slumbers after having slept for aeons in the guarded citadel of the Black Pool. I have fought against the men of Connacht, against Norseman and Norman-”

“What, Norman Jeffries? That boy’s a psycho – I wouldn’t go near him. To tell you the truth, mate I owe him a bit of money, so I’m avoiding him like the plague at the moment.”

Sammy couldn’t quite place the lad’s accent, but he certainly wasn’t a local.

“So you’re not from round here then?”

“I am an Ulsterman, born and bred. The place has changed since my last battle, but still I must take arms against the enemies of Ulster…”

“So you’re one of us then?”

Despite his declaration of kindred spirit there was still something odd about him. Maybe he was a foreign sailor from the docks who’d had one drink too many and lost his way en route to a fancy dress party. Or could he be high on dope? If this was the case Sammy could do with some weed to lift his spirits even further.

“You seem like a decent lad – you like a bit of fisticuffs, eh? I could with your help if big Norm ever came knocking on my door. So who else have you had run-ins with?”

“I have slain the mighty hound of Culann with my bare hands, as it is written in the Tain.”

“Good on you, mate. We’re better off without dogs. Public health hazard if you ask me. Big Norm’s got a Rottweiller, mind. It nearly went for me once. I’d love to fill it full of lead, but I can’t afford to break the ceasefire if you know what I mean. So where are you from anyway? That’s definitely not a Belfast accent. Somewhere in the country? Tyrone is it?”

“I am of the Red Branch Knights…”

Sammy cut him off in mid flow. “Is that one of these new paramilitary groups who’s against the peace process mate? You’d better watch yourself – I went down for three years because of boys like that and between me and you, there’s a few people ’round here who like to bear grudges if you know what I mean, like.”

Suddenly Sammy felt a hand on his shoulder. He whirled around and was suddenly paralysed with fear.

“Nice to see you Sammy” said the smiling face.

It was Norman Jeffries and he was holding a baseball bat.

Cúchulainn was nowhere to be seen. Sammy made a run for it only to find his path blocked by Billy “Flick-knife” Mc Alistair, also clutching a baseball bat. The legendary warrior had mysteriously disappeared.

“Going somewhere, Sammy? What’s the hurry? Why not stick around and chill with your mates?”

It was now Norm’s turn.

“I don’t want to hassle you Sam”, he said calmly, “but didn’t we have a wee arrangement going? It was a simple matter of fifty quid plus two month’s interest. Now what about honouring your side of the bargain?”

Sammy had broken into a cold sweat and was quite visibly shaking. His voice had suddenly gone all high pitched and shaky. “I swear to you Norm, I’ll have it by next week. Just gimme a chance to get it all together.” He was trying to bluff his way out of it and suddenly came up with an idea.

“I’ve got this tip on a horse – it’s running on Wednesday. It’s a dead cert. All I have to do is get down to the bookies and I’ll have the money for you. Come on lads, you know me. Would I ever pull a fast one on yez?”

Norman and Billy were having none of it. It was now Billy’s turn.

“By the way, Sam, Wee Bobby doesn’t like being cheated at snooker and what’s this I hear about you and my Debbie?”

Sammy turned white. “I don’t know what you’re on about!”

“Well this might help jog your memory” said Norm as he landed a powerful blow to Sammy’s face, felling him instantly.

“Come on lads, Jesus!” Sammy protested, rubbing his swelling cheek.

Billy laughed as the baseball bats got to work. He continued his taunts. “By the way I like the tattoo, Sam. Must have set you back a few bob. Put it like this. The money’s not for us. It all goes into the organisation, so in a way you’re taking a beating for God and Ulster!”

Sammy called out in vain. “Cúchulainn! Come on, I need your help, mate! Please!”

But the ancient defender of Ulster had disappeared.

Sammy’s screams were drowned out by the beat of the Lambeg drum and the shouts of drunken revellers. A large crowd had assembled around the bonfire which was now blazing away. A cheer arose as Karol Woytyla, the former Bishop of Krakow went up in flames.

The crowd was oblivious to the radio news bulletin coming from a nearby house.

“You’re tuned to Radio Ulster and here is the news read by Wendy McNesbitt. The General Post Office in Dublin has tonight reported the theft of a valuable statue. The marble figure of Cúchulainn, mythological warrior hero of ancient Ulster went missing from the premises. There were no signs of forced entry and Garda forensic experts are baffled as to the statue’s mysterious disappearance. Both Loyalist and Republican sources have denied any involvement in the crime.” Meanwhile Sammy’s screams continued on into the night. Cúchulainn may well have returned home, but where was he when you needed him?