‘Don’t you dare.’
Naked Binky shouting from the passageway. A man jumping to pull the light out of the ceiling. A flash of blue flame and in the darkness cigarettes and candles lighting up. Buster the Beastly now disappeared down the passageway, and the Mild Man in the grey suit, previously in attendance, raising up his own bottle of stout among the newly arrived.
‘Ah it’s grand by this candlelight to see patriots of the purification squad in action. Up the Republic lads. And will someone sing us Stephen Foster’s My Old Kentucky Home.’
The commandant lowering his bottle from his mouth and wiping his lips, shouting above the heads.
‘Sing the man his song, and that’s a fucking order.’
‘Never mind the old kip in Kentucky, sing us, would you live on woman’s earnings.’
‘Who said that.’
‘It wasn’t me.’
A voice yodelling. The platoon of patriots in close order drill. Corks pulled out and their bottles at the ready. As their elbows bend to the commands called out.
‘Bottles to the lips. Drink.’
The squad in clockwork unison. As the foaming black beer pours down the stretched back throats. And their arms lift over their heads to throw the empty bottles whistling across the room to smash against the sackcloth draped wall. Strains of a violin coming from the dark passageway. The feet of more arrivals on the steps outside. The door opening. The Mild Man in the grey suit shouting.
‘Begorra it’s the socialites.’
Binky stepping over the supine figures, as he crosses the room. An apron tented out over his erection. His wiry arms outstretched towards the newcomers.
‘Just so long my dears that you are not the gobshites, you are my sweetie pies welcome to my litle tea party.’
Beads of perspiration on Rashers’s brow returning to Darcy Dancer’s side. A nervous smile on his face. His fingers gently touching Darcy Dancer’s arm.
‘Darcy it’s so good of you to remain so silently patient. Road’s not yet quite clear back there. I fear the dangerous atmosphere down here grows even more dangerous by the second. Some awful gin and lime spivs have just come in the door whom one occasionally encounters in the gilded cage of Davy Byrne’s when one is imbibing one’s Black Velvet. And dear me, they are in the company of a chap from your neck of the woods, a Master of Foxhounds. That lady likes being fucked standing on her head, and is the wife of a top government minister. The chap in cowboy boots and hat, armed with two revolvers, with her is mad, as well as being a damn good bridge player. O dear I do apologize for having brought you here.’
‘Well I am about to leave.’
‘But dear Darcy, you mustn’t yet. I so need your reassuring company you know. I am a fragile person, really. Among such as this lot. There’s the Sober Judge, his inebriation on the bench is legendary. Just behind him, the Royal Rat, my erstwhile associate who runs our little casino. Pawned his own mother’s sick bed. While she was still in it. Imagine he was pushing her on a handcart down the road when the heavy rain woke her up. You wouldn’t believe such a hunched decrepit figure could also be the brother of Clarissa and the Black Widow. And that man with the hanky is the Mourner. Never without a tear or sob. Tréslugubre, mélancolique, funebre, to put a French word on it. Attends funerals by day. And wakes such as this, at night. A sad evening to be made even sadder. He’ll bring this entire room sobbing uncontrollably to their knees. Tiresome of course if one had more randy things on one’s mind. You mustn’t go.’
‘Rashers, I really do feel one wants to return to the Shelbourne to bed.’
‘But ah wait, here’s the very chap now, getting on the table with his contraption. The vacuum cleaner salesman. As to who would have use of such in Ireland one will never know. Under the suction most carpets would vaporize in dust anyway. You mustn’t miss this demonstration. Ignorant or clever man, one doesn’t know which, but I suppose in our backward way of life, having the end of a vacuum cleaner to stick one’s organ into would help relieve the nationwide celibacy. Summer time he demonstrates how it catches flies. Dear me, he’s engorged already.’
A single candle left lighting the room. Jeering and cheering. Fist shaking and laughter. The salesman on the table entangled with his vacuum hose, tripping and landing bare arsed among the parcels of unopened bottles.
‘There are ladies present.’
‘As a decent Catholic and native born Irishman I object.’
‘Dear me, Darcy it would seem there are prigs present. And I sincerely hope the root of his penis is firmly connected to the rami of the os pubis and ischium. Else his organ will end up in his dust bag. Of course so many demonstrations have distorted the obtuse cone of his extremity. But by the look of that copious substance coming out of the orifice of his urethra, everything is working. I think I’ll have him deliver me a vacuum at the Shelbourne.’
Rashers pulling the cork and handing Darcy Dancer a bottle of stout. Smiling as he puts one to his own lips. And reaching to squeeze Darcy Dancer on the arm.
‘Dear boy this may I know be the sort of environment you abhor. But you see. We are this moment to be joined by dear friends.’
In the semi darkness, a commotion at the front door. Binky waving a horse whip, riding on the shoulders of another naked gentleman, plunging their way through the ever tightening throng. Shouting over the heads.
‘No more please allowed tonight into Binky’s royal enclosure. O but yes. We do make an exception for my most esteemed and most worshipped employer. Forgive me madam, my perch up here. And welcome too, to distinguished members of the aristocracy. Of course we all know your Lordship that you were previously a Major in the army before joining the Royal Air Force. And that you are also title in the French peerage. So pleased to have you, and your particularly pretty lady friend.’
Blowing a kiss to Binky, the Black Widow sweeping in. Followed by the Mental Marquis in his kilt. Someone at his side, a lady in an elegant black coat and black gloves, her black hair shadowed by a hat. And she turns her head. And the faint candle light throws a shadow across her face.
Rashers turning to Darcy Dancer who groans and shrinks backwards, his heels banging against a crate on the floor. The preliminary insults of a fight, concerning the colour of the sky, erupting nearby.
‘Darcy, what’s the matter dear boy. You have haven’t you, found the present company too appalling. You’ve gone completely pale white. Even in this light. Here, sit down. On this soda water crate. I’ll only be the briefest instant nipping again into my hara kiri room. To put pawn ticket and cufflinks into your possession. And take you away. I promise. I absolutely promise.’
Rashers pushing through the shrieking laughter, tears and growls. His intrepid head, beyond the smoke, disappearing into the dark passage. And across this room. It is. I know. Standing by the Marquis’ shoulder. Beneath the wide brimmed hat, that satin skinned exquisite face. Luscious lips crimson soft. Your purple ribbon. The flash of your eyes. Which have already seen so much woe of the world. With their green that looks so black. So full of mellow sympathy. He dare. Bring your gentle demeanour, your silent presence here. The neck of your coat open, a jewel sparkling at your throat. I crouch. I cower. Hide away from you. Tremble and shake. Heart crushed and damned. Utterly betrayed. As Mr Arland must have felt. When he thought his preciously beloved. Was severed from him by another man. Are you now Leila to be from me. After all the months you seemed so safely waiting in my mind. While I did nothing. To reach and touch you. Before any other should say. Be mine. How late is it now. To plead and pray. Please leave open all the little gates. That lead to the garden of your heart. That once I heard you say. Out of all your sins. And with all your soul.