Would
Never
Close
19
Darcy Dancer, through the jostling and stumbling drunken figures, making his way away in the semi darkness. Water dripping in the cold damp smell of this long corridor. Past these vaulted caverns. And shadows. Go by this sallow sad faced blond gentleman. A violin held to his face, bow delicately drawn across the strings as he plays. Hair like the Count’s, nearly to his shoulders. Sorrow instead of lust in his eyes. A naval greatcoat like Mr Arland’s across his shoulders. A long Trinity College scarf wrapped again and again around his neck. One shivers at his sound. Even in one’s despair. He does so play so beautifully. To a man in tears listening. In pyjamas and slippers. Blood trickling from a cut on his brow.
A hand reaching out to grab Darcy Dancer by the arm. A figure in an arched doorway, drinking a bottle of stout. Pulling him into a dank cellar. Piles of strewn bottles. Broken crates. A mouldering mattress on the floor.
‘If you’ve nothing better to do comrade, come now have a closer look in here. At the sight of that. There’s concupiscence for you.’
Beyond this man inside this dungeon interior. Two naked men. One bent over, his hand grasping a sheaf of bank notes, and propped against the wall. While another stands only in spectacles. Buggering him. Darcy Dancer pulling his arm away. The man pulling him back.
‘Now what’s your hurry. Passing up this bit of anthropology. Look at them. No mind given to the cold. Nor was a kindness ever given by that mean fucking eegit, who’s humping. Fist full of pound notes. From profits out of his electrical appliance shop. Putting his horn up that bollocks naked apprentice seaman there charging him a pound a thrust paid prior to execution. And behold the sweaty face on him to get his money’s worth. Up the Republic comrade. And if it wasn’t so funny it would be the most diabolical piece of revolting uncircumcised heathenish commercialism I’ve ever had the displeasure of seeing. But jesus now I’d grease up me own arse and give up socialism for good, if someone were pushing pounds like that into me fist.’
Darcy Dancer retreating further along the corridor. To stop. Listen. Hear back there in that crowded room. A balalaika playing. Hands clapping. Must now be the Count MacBuzuranti has arrived. Bursting into this subterranean nightmare with a Russian dance. How does one escape. Neither forward nor back. Peeking past more archways leading into other caves, tunnels and cellars. More supine entangled groaning and heaving bothes on more mattresses. Or am I merely standing dizzily turning in a desperate circle. To find my way out of here. Mouth dry. Throat tasting of vomit. A crash. A sound of a struggle. A shout. Of help. Rashers’ voice. This door ajar to this room behind me. Which has a window. Which I’m sure does not open out on heaven. But to the red bleak darkness of hell. My god, two on top of him. In violence instead of lust. A third trying to prise open his fingers. As they hold him down. Pinned over a bed. Knocking over the candle. Which is putting a pile of newspapers alight. To bring us all more bright cheery news.
‘Darcy, the buggers, by god. The buggers.’
One large flame illumined silhouette spinning round turning to confront Darcy Dancer. Pausing to look for a wieldy weapon. And none to hand, his head lowering to charge. To butt me like a bull. Hands reach up to grab. To drag me down. As I let fly with every ounce of one’s might behind a fist, arching up from my bent knee in an upper cut. Connecting to the side of his face.
‘Cream the buggers, Darcy.’
Like an apple squashed on granite. The man’s head rising up. Blood bursting from a great gash across his cheek under his eye. His feet leaving the floor. Upwards he goes over a crate. Falling crashing to the other side. Growls and curses. A struggling shout from Rashers unpinioning himself from the bed.
‘Marvellous Darcy. We’ll soon put paid to you damn thieves.’
Rashers’s feet kicking out throwing the second man flying backwards across the room. Crackling sound of breaking gramophone records. Just as one now suddenly remembers. In the middle of all this. So clear and distinct. That my god I had an appointment. That one has so rudely forgotten. To meet Miss von B. For social intercourse.
‘Darcy, the damn bugger has crashed into my McCormack records. Kill him.’
Man’s hands grabbing at the Hessian drape to pull himself up. Fittings tearing out of the plaster. The fabric falling, covering his head. Rashers landing a kick between the third man’s legs. Doubling him up in a squeal of agony to the floor. As he rolls back and forth clutching his goolies. The smoke billowing over the room. The man holding his split face together at the door, blood pouring out between his fingers. His two associates crawling towards him gasping. And shouting out into the hall.
‘Hit us with axes, the fuckers. Slashed him with an axe down the face.’
Rashers, his tailcoat torn and tie tightened into a tiny knot. Throws a blanket over the flames. Stamping out the burning newspaper. And turning to loose from a clenched fist, cufflinks and pawn ticket into Darcy Dancer’s hand.
‘Here take these, my dear fellow, the whole place is being incited against us. Every one of those evil bastards whose prick is not securely plunged up something or someone, will want to bathe themselves in our Anglo Irish blood.’
Rashers tugging and pulling up the bottom of the window. Lifting up his foot and smashing out the panes. And up on his knees on the sill and disappearing out into the darkness. As one feels something stuck in one’s back.
‘This is a Schmeisser, you fucker. And I’ll blow your spine to pieces if you move.’
Darcy Dancer shoved with the barrel of a gun. Out the door. Along the corridor into another dungeon room. Gathered faces in the candlelight.
‘Here he is. He’s yours.’
Gunman pushing the long barrel of the pistol back in under his coat, hunching up his collar and disappearing. Face this crowd of baleful faces leaning against this wall. Staring at me. As this man malevolently stands with his sour breath accosting my nostrils.
‘Did you hit that man with an axe.’
‘He was hit with my fist.’
‘You hit him with an axe, or keys or something, no fist could do that damage.’
Other faces gathering ominously closer. Moving. As I move. My back closer against the wall. While the man with the gun is gone. I may only have to face gouging hands, kicking feet, kneeings and butting heads. My demise in all their eyes. Rashers to whose rescue one goes. Also gone. At least his cufflinks and pawn ticket are unsafely in my pocket. To whom does one shout for help. And have even the merest hope of being heard from this dungeon room. All I can do. Is fight. Foot and fist. At least make one the with me. Smash in this first nearest face. Kick the goolies of the smirking man behind him. Send them splattering on the ceiling. And distinctly announce my intentions.
‘If you so much as move a hair to touch me, I will part your face in two with the same fist that demolished your associate.’
A furtive sheepish grin stealing over the lips of the interrogator, uneasily shifting his weight from foot to foot. Eyes slowly believing what I’m saying. But still smiling, knowing half a dozen pair of hands stand safely behind his back. Ready to beat me to a pulp. But my fist will reach his jaw before I the. Now. Here. Within steps of her touch. As the silence shivers. The interrogator has just given some signal. And one of them now. I spy. Moving sideways along the wall. But at least this interrogator is going to go down dead in front of me. Before this chilling sound is over. The end smashed off a bottle. A voice. Firmly loud. Word by slow word announcing.