The taxi proceeding around these bleak corners of commerce. Down an incline between pubs and banking houses. And out on the broad stretch of Dame Street. Leads west to the Atlantic. East to the black high arched portal of this ancient seat of learning. The massive grey pillars and porches of the Bank of Ireland. The taxi heading across the tram tracks. Over a bump. Under that blue gold clock high above. And Beefy is giggling as Rebecca's head is rather burrowing where it shouldn't be.
"Stop it Rebecca. This is a tender moment when one's countenance must wear a bland look of ecclesiastic purity. Demanding of a salute from those who serve."
Beefy rearing in his seat eyes widening in horror as the taxi fails to decrease speed. And slams to a stop against the wooden barricade. Two porters come out. Slowly inspecting the dent in the timber they come to the window and peer at a motionless Beefy. They go to pull up the iron pins and lift back the main door. We move forward. Porters lean over ever so slightly. Beefy nods. They touch their caps. And now we trundle across the cobble stones.
"By God we've done it Balthazar. By God we've done as nice a piece of elemental underhandedness as could be expected in a vehicle which should not be allowed out on the roads. Just lie low now girls until big uncle Beefy gets you safely into his randy quarters. Who's for brandy. Ah Balthazar. You know I'm enjoying your company. You give me a sense of destiny. I rather mean to say my character is all shot to hell. I'm skidding along now on infamy. Heading for my holy orders. With my trustees screaming. My granny stony hearted. My vile despicable propensities raging. Of course I shall take my holy orders. But not before I've had my fill of the diabolical."
"Beefy I don't like the look of things. I have a strange feeling we got by the porters too easily. Can't we have cocoa and go out again."
"Balthazar you are an awfully polite man you know. But not one for filling in the silences in conversation, are you. Taxi man, apply your brakes now, that doorway right there. Get close in. That's a good man."
Beefy debarking with rug. Holding it aloft between car door and the dark stony entrance. To let the damsels discreetly pass. Into chill darkness and move up three landings guiding with hands on the smooth banisters and creaking stairs. Beefy whispering close.
"Ah Balthazar aren't you excited tonight. With these two lasses. You can engage in any proclivity you fancy.'
"I heard what you said and don't be thinking I don't know all them big words mean the same thing."
"I love you Rebecca. I love you."
"You love yourself."
"You see Balthazar these girls are clever. Far above the ordinary. You know, this isn't a time to bring this up, but I rather funked it in the military. Could never organise an assault. Would say to the chaps. This is your captain speaking, can you hear me chappies, there are the buggers beyond the ridge, let them have it by God, mortar them good and proper. Forsooth I set off a barrage to give them what for beyond the ridge. After the preliminary softening up I told the chappies to rush them. I put my umbrella up to march out setting a good example, through the rain of shells. Men didn't like it at all. Thought I was putting on the dog. But the enemy were so stunned to see me marching at them under my snake skin handled umbrella that they ceased firing. Just as well. The unhappy thing was, I was attacking my own men. I was an absolutely dead loss at war. Soon as they got rid of me they started winning like mad. But you know, let me say confidentially, I tried to soldier well. Even now when I pass Horse Guards' Parade in London, hear the band, the crunch of heels on the gravel, a reverberation goes through me and I thrill to an instant erection. I mean some chaps express their loyalties in other ways. But that little signal, that pure salute. One's private little pole. Standing outright and quivering. Has always made me feel that my love of regiment, my loyalty to the Monarch, was a swelling splendour of heartfelt salutation. Wait girls, for your captain. This fearful trip is not yet done. Until we are safely inside."
Beefy opening the door. Ushering in his guests. He goes from room to room announcing an all clear and switching on a light. Breda staring around these booklined walls. Hung with risque tapestries and silver ornaments. Crossed sabres over the mantel. Four shotguns locked against a wall. A great carpet woven with the facial and saucy aspects of a Persian gentleman in all expressions from sadness to outright laughter. In every nook and cranny, crystal splendours. Bound volumes. Ecclesiastical Policy. Eucharistic Faith and Practice. A Short History of the Doctrine of Atonement.
"That woman there on the wall is my granny. Who has made much of what you see here possible. Often I kneel of an evening, light a candle and look up to her and pray my thanks. She is as flint hearted as she looks. But do help yourselves to the bowl of raisins one and all. And allow me to pour. Rebecca, whisky."
"Ah you're a cod. Sure this place is like one of them black gentlemen have."
"I have my dear woman not been blessed by a dark complexion but I am a man of the divinity, do not forget that.
Must satisfy the Archbishop King's Professor that I am an habitual communicant of the Church of Ireland. Nor forget that before ordaining a candidate for the ministry you must have your medical certificate of health. Leave no doubt as to physical soundness in the performance of ministerial duties.
There Rebecca read that tome, The Problem of the Pastoral Epistles."
"What would I want with such protestant rubbish. Sure you'll burn to a crisp in hell, you will."
"Ah Rebecca you take the pope to heart. Did you know he was a share holder in your breweries."
"What kind of talk is that."
"Ah Rebecca, Rome is finished as a power. The pope is in voluntary liquidation and is making for Zurich but I thirst for a glance of your naked person, your fleshy realizable assets."
"You'll roast for centuries."
"But tonight let us not be squeamish. Blessed is the man who puts his pole into the ungodly and spits mighty spurts. O God I'm so painfully horny. Step lightly forward now in a rhythmic manner my dear. Off with your garments. Let us have some balletic expertise."
"I will in a tinker's tit, in front of everyone."
"Ah no vile language here, girl. British territorial prerogatives prevail within these Trinity walls. Be not base low mean and shabby. Strip off." "Will you listen to him. Strip off he says."
"Ah Rebecca can't you see I'm agog for your nude form. Breathlessly impatient for visiting vile humiliations upon you. Blessed are they who lay down their garments one by one in a manner of teasing dalliance for they will have a pole of plenty eight miles up them. In due ruddy course. Of course."
"You're a Presbyterian."
"Ah you've uttered the one thing that provokes me Rebecca and calls for, of course, rape. I must rape you. Don't try to struggle it will be useless."
"Sure I can scream the bricks down of this building."
"We must employ the gags. Can't have outcry when Beefy is scintillating through his magic mire of shame. Just here inside this cabinet, here we are, the gags, the silk pyjama cords. For trussing up. For the vile proddings."
Balthazar hands joined entwined, his back pressing against a series of volumes in the book case, A Theological Introduction and Texts to Religious Experience and Divine Diverticula. Breda looking from face to face. Beefy dropping his trousers. Rebecca pulling off her dress. Not to know what was funny or what was sad. Or what was rape and what was mad.