Omally raised his stick aloft. “What did you say?”
“Nothing, nothing.”
“And you’ll pay for the restoration of my bicycle?”
“Yes, yes.”
Omally caught sight of the heap of splintered wood and warped iron that had once been his second home. “And my shed?”
“Yes, anything you say.”
“From the ground up, new timbers, and I’ve always fancied a bit of a porch to sit in at the end of a summer’s day.”
“You bas…”
“What?” Omally wielded his cudgel menacingly.
“Nothing, nothing, leave it to me.”
“Good, then farewell. All my best to you and please convey my regards to your dear wife.”
Omally strode off in the direction of the post box, leaving the master of the iron fist on the dusty ground thrashing his arms and legs and cursing between tightly clenched teeth.
The Professor’s letter duly despatched, Omally set his foot towards the Flying Swan. He looked up at the empty sky, blue as the eyes of a Dublin lass. He would really have enjoyed this unusual summer had it not been for the sinister affair he had become involved in. As he approached the Swan he ran into Norman. It was early closing day and like Omally he was thirsting for a pint of cooling Large and the pleasures of the pot room. The two men entered the saloon bar and were met by a most extraordinary spectacle.
Captain Carson, on whom none had laid eyes for several months, stood at the counter evidently in a state of advanced drunkenness and looking somewhat the worse for wear. He was clad in pyjamas and dressing-gown and surrounded by what appeared to be his life’s possessions in bundles and bags spread about the floor. “Thirty bloody years,” he swore, “thirty bloody years serving the troubled and down-at-heel, doing the work that should have won me a Nobel Prize, never a complaint, never a word said against me, and here I am, out on my ear, penniless, banjoed and broken.”
Omally followed Norman to the polished counter and the lad ordered a brace of Largi. “What’s all this then?” Omally whispered to the part-time barman.
Neville pulled upon the pump handle. “He’s got his marching orders from the Mission. It’s been converted into a church now and he’s no longer required.”
Omally, who felt somewhat emboldened after his recent encounter with Archroy, wondered if now might be the time to broach the subject of his wheelbarrow, but the sheer wretchedness the Captain displayed drove any such thoughts from his mind. “Who kicked him out then, the Mission Trust?”
“No, the new vicar there, some high Muck-a-Muck it seems.”
High Muck-a-Muck, thought Omally, if only they knew the truth. But the fates must surely be with him, for the Captain must know a good deal about the cuckoo he had harboured within his nest. “Get him a large rum on me,” said Omally, “he looks as if he needs it.”
The Captain took the rum in both hands and tossed it back down his open throat. “God bless you, John Omally,” said he, wiping his mouth on his dressing-gown sleeve. “You are a good man.”
“I take it that the times are at present against you,” said John.
“Against me? What do you think I’m doing here in my bloody jim-jams, going to a fancy-dress party?”
“It has been known.”
“Listen.” Captain Carson banged his empty glass upon the bar. “That bastard has driven me from my home, evicted me, me with thirty years serving the troubled and down at heel, me who should have won a Nobel bloody Prize for my labours, me who -”
“Yes, yes,” said Omally, “I can see you are a man sorely put upon, but who has put you in this dire predicament?”
“That bloody Pope geezer, that’s who. Came into my Mission as a stinking old tramp and look what he turned out to be.”
Neville pricked up his ears. “Tramp?” said the part-time barman. “When was this?”
“About three months ago, called at my door and I extended him the hospitality that was expected of me, should have kicked him out on his bloody ear that’s what I should have done.”
Neville leant closer to the drunken Sea Captain. “What did he look like?” he asked.
“’Oribble, filthy, disreputable, evil creature, ragged as a Cairo cabbie.”
“And is he there now?” Neville continued.
“Well.” The Captain hesitated, swaying somewhat on his slippered feet, and held the bar counter for support. “You could say he is, but then again he isn’t. He was little when he came,” he made a levelling gesture at about chest height, “small he was, but now, huge, bloody big bastard, bad cess upon him.” His hand soared into the air high over his head and the eyes of the assembled company travelled with it.
“Aw, get out of here,” said Neville, returning to his glass polishing, “no-one can grow that big in a few months.”
“I should bloody know,” screamed the Captain, shattering his glass upon the bar counter, “I should bloody know, I’ve fed him, cleaned and swept for him, treated him like some Holy God all these months. He had me like a ship’s rat in a trap, no-one can stand against him, but now I’m out, he’s kicked me out of my Mission, but I’ll finish him, I’ll tell all I know, things he’s done, things he made me do…” Here his voice trailed off and his eyes became glazed.
“Yes?” said Omally. “What have you done?”
Captain Carson spoke not a word. Neville, who had taken shelter beneath the counter, rose again, wielding his knobkerry. “Get out!” he shouted. “You’re barred.”
The old man stood unblinking. His mouth was open as if in the formation of a word, but it was a word which never came.
“What’s happened to him?” said Neville. “He’s not dead is he?”
Omally walked slowly about the paralysed figure in the dressing-gown. He snapped his fingers and waved his hands in front of the staring eyes. But the Captain would not move, he was frozen to the spot. Those drinkers who had made vague attempts at private conversation or the perusal of the sporting press during all this, now came slowly forward to view the strange tableau. Suggestions were forthcoming.
“Flick your lighter, that brings them out of it.”
“Bucket of water, that’s your man.”
“Ice cube down his neck.”
“Make a grab at his wallet, that will bring him round.”
Omally held an empty wine-glass to the Captain’s lips. He turned it between his fingers then held it up to the light. “He’s stopped breathing,” he said, “this man is dead.”
“Get him out of here,” screamed Neville, climbing over the counter, “I won’t have a stiff in my bar.”
“Quick then,” said Omally, “give me a hand to carry him out into the sun, maybe we can resuscitate him.”
Omally grasped the Captain under the armpits and Neville made to lift up the slippered feet. What followed was even more bizarre than what had gone before. The old man would not move; it was as if he had been welded to the Saloon bar floor. Omally could not shift the old and crooked shoulders an inch, and Neville let out a sudden “Oh!” and straightened up, holding his back.
Several men stepped forward and attempted to shake and pull at the Captain, but he would not be moved, not one foot, one inch, one iota.
“Do something,” said Neville in a voice of terror, “I can’t have him standing there forever looking at me, he’ll go off in this heat, he’ll ruin my trade, it’s bad luck to have a stiff in the saloon bar.”
Omally prodded at the Captain’s dressing-gown. “He appears to be freezing up,” he said, “the material of his gown here is stiff as a board, you can’t even sway it.”
“I don’t care!” Neville was beginning to panic. “He can’t stay here, get him out. Get him out!”
Omally returned to the bar and took up his glass, while the crowd closed in about the Captain. “That is certainly the strangest thing I have ever seen,” he said. “This might make you famous.” Omally’s brain suddenly switched on. There was money in this, that was for sure. He swept back his glass of Large and made for the door, but the part-time barman had anticipated him and stood, knobkerry in hand, blocking the Irishman’s exit. “Oh no you don’t,” said he.