Puckoon (16 page)
Together they were strolling up the
church drive to evening devotions. He gauged his stride as two feet nine
inches, and each foot would weigh roughly a pound. Oh yes, these little
statistical walks with his wife gave him much information. One statistic he
wasn't aware of.
The ever-widening gap between him and her.
And the ever-narrowing one between her and the coalman.
Suddenly his calculations were interrupted.
'Psstttttttttttttt!' Mr Prells stopped.
' Psssssstttt
-ttttt!' There it was again, well not
exactly again. This was a second Psssttt but sounded exactly the same as the
first.
' Pssttttttttttt
!' It appeared to be coming
from inside the gardener's shed. There must be someone in residence. Smoke was
coming from the chimney. Mr Prells leaned towards the door and spoke.
' Who's
in
there going " Pssstttt" ?' he inquired.
'Me name's Milligan. Dan Milligan.'
'I'm very pleased to meet you,' said
Prells through the keyhole, and raising his hat.
' My
name is Prells
and
this is
my wife Hetty.' So saying he slid one of his cards under the door.
' Please
unbolt the door, it's a matter of life and death.' Deftly Mr Prells withdrew
the bolt, the door opened slowly, and there stood Milligan, the Roman Soldier.
Before he could explain, there was a
crunch of Ulster Police boots on gravel. 'That's the feller!' shouted the
Sergeant. In a moment, Milligan went under to a sea of flailing truncheons and
snapping handcuffs. 'Thang!' went the truncheons on Milligan's helmet.
'Thang!
Thang!'
Mr Prells assessed
that each truncheon would weigh three pounds, there were five of them, they
were descending on Milligan's head at the rate of one blow every three seconds,
therefore, five by three gave a total weight of fifteen pounds per combined
hit, fifteen pounds every three seconds, therefore in one hour's hitting the
man in the Roman helmet would receive 15 X 3 = 45 lbs in weight.
A good weight.
'Helppppp!
Stop!' screamed Milligan, 'Stoppp-ppp! I surrender!'
'Not till we've finished you don't,'
came the gleeful reply.
'Stop, I got something important to
tell you,' said the Milligan. The relentless thudding stopped.' Well, what is
it?' asked the Sergeant. 'You're a lot of Protestant Bastards, that's what!'
said Milligan, immediately going into the foetal position.
'
Thang
!' went the truncheons with renewed vigour.
'
Thang
-Thang Thang!'
Through the blue serge legs, Milligan
saw a small tent of blue that the prisoner called the sky. He took it. Up the
road he ran, his left wrist handcuffed to his right ankle. Rocks bounced off
his skull. The police were gaining, proof positive that five pairs of legs are
faster than one.
' Help
, me
legs are outnumbered!' he shouted, the light of despair coming into his eyes. '
sojjorrox
!' he yelled.
Francois D'Fruites, tall, thin,
passionate, mustachioed croupier at the Monte Carlo tables, was momentarily
puzzled; he had not previously noticed this unshaven man in the exquisite
evening clothes. Nevertheless there he was now. The man appeared breathless,
repeatedly looking over his shoulder and occasionally feeling his legs.
The man suddenly looked at his own
garb in great surprise,
then
his face broke into a
broad relieved grin. A highly suspicious manager had inquired of him,' Can I be
of help,
m'sieur ?
' and was answered with,' Speak
English, you ignorant swine.'
' Pardon
?'
said the manager, lapsing into English.
' May
I see
your membership card ?'
' Sure
,'
said the Milligan, producing a million-franc note. 'Dere it is me old froggie
lad, and dere's more where dat came from,' he said, waving a fistful in his
face.
The manager swayed slightly. 'Merci,'
he was heard to say very feebly.
A creature in red velvet, white skin
and raven hair, reeking of all the latest anti-underarm odours, saw the money
and was suddenly drawn towards this fascinating stranger.
'Good evening, you naughty man,' she
said, affectionately stroking his currency, and smiled at him from a forty-two
inch bosom.
Milligan knew that the more a woman's
bust protrudes the more her mind recedes.
'Hello, little darlin',' he said from
the waist down. 'Vous le vous promenade avec moi?' he said from his little
store of 1914
French.
'Kaiser Bill fini,' he informed her.
' Meet
me at
zis address,' she said, slipping him a well-thumbed picture of a bedroom. 'We
will 'ave a good time, not to mention Bazonka.'
' Bazonka
?'
he queried.
' I
told you
not to mention that!' she said.
He slipped his arm around her
waist,
even as he did five
main Casino door. 'There's the bastard!' shouted the leading one. 'Thang!' went
the first truncheon on Milligan's skull.
'It sounds like him, lads,' said the
Sergeant.
'Thankety-thang-thang!' went the
truncheons.
'What's going on here?' said Father
Rudden issuing from the vestry, his face covered in shaving soap. 'What are you
doing in me churchyard?' he roared, pulling off a layer of policemen.
'This man is a member of the i.r.a.,
sir,' they said pointing at the Milligan.
'Nonsense, this man is my gardener.'
'Then your gardener is a member of
the
i.r.a
.,' they said dragging Milligan away.
'Stop!' said the priest. 'Gentlemen,'
he said in tones most contrite, but continuing to shave, 'if you'll step into
the vestry, I will admit the entire plot to capture the Queen.'
The Sergeant dropped his truncheon
with shock. This was a turn-up for the book.
'Very well,' said the Sergeant,
'first I'll want a signed confession.'
The priest stood to one
side,
he was not numerically equipped to stand more. 'In
here,' he said.
One by one the police filed into the
vestry. The door slammed behind.
' Run
for
the polis and the militia!' they heard him shout to Milligan.
The trapped men were hammering on the
inside of the door and nails started to fly like confetti. The priest was
shaving as fast as he could. In the gardener's hut, the wood of the coffin was
starting to smoulder, and somewhere a
drunk
called
Hermonogies K. Thuckrutes lay face down in a gutter singing.
The wind blew bitter cold.
Twenty-four hours since the panther escaped. Mr Wretch and Gulio Caesar looked
miserably at each other. The creature must have crossed the border. The cage
pulled up at the Customs
post,
wearily Gulio let
himself to the ground and approached a smarting sentry. 'Just let him tell me
his name is Julius Caesar,' he thought.
'Pardona me,' said the little
Italian, 'mya name is Gulio Caesar -'
The next moment he was on his back,
the soldier jumping up and down on his stomach, a bayonet at his nose. 'And I'm
Brutus!' yelled the gleeful soldier. He was eventually restrained by
Barring-ton.
'What do you want?' he asked the
unfortunate Gulio.
'We wanta to crossa
da border.'
'Then I must examine the cage for contraband.' He entered
the cage up three steps. The horse gave a little lurch. The cage door slammed,
now, it was one of those tricky locks....
With Ah Pong on the pillion, Sergeant
MacGilli-kudie cycled to investigate the Chinaman's report of 'mass poachings'.
Snow was falling and the little yellow man's gold teeth were chattering with
eighteen carat gold. Turning a corner they came upon a hopping Roman, ankle
handcuffed to wrist,
who
for the last mile had been
desperately trying to mount a bike and would have been well advised to leave it
alone.
' Milligan!' shouted MacGillikudie.'
What in God's name are you
doing ?'
Without warning his pillion
passenger, the Sergeant dismounted, his boot contacting Ah Pong's gold teeth
and thus devaluing the Chinaman's head by thirty Hong Kong dollars.
Standing up bent double, Milligan
gabbled out the story.
' Quick
, on
the cross bar,' said MacGillikudie.
Downhill rode the
avenging trio, the wind howling through the gap in Ah Pong's teeth.
Faster and faster revolved the Sergeant's legs, his mind occupied
with thoughts of massive arrests and promotion.
'Ah Pong,' said Sergeant
MacGillikudie, 'I am exceeding the speed limit, I want you to book me?
'I do,' said the Chinese.
'Good, now I arrest you as you are
going the same speed!' The Law was the law.
For an hour they hammered and banged
on the lock of the cage.
It was starting to snow.
'Someone go and get an acetylene
cutter,' said Barrington gripping the bars.
'Mama
mia
,
no no,' said Gulio, 'data would ruin da lock!'
'There's a locksmith in Puckoon,'
said Mr Wretch, ' a retired burglar, he wants to get his hand in again.'
'Anything,' said Barrington, 'but get
me out of this frightful cage.'
Mr Wretch turned the pony towards
Puckoon.
They were puzzled farmworkers who
watched the cage with its attendant shouting-skipping-alongside children. It
had got to the poking him with sticks stage.
' Get
away,
dem you!' shouted
' What
hav yez done rong mister ?'
'
Was
it a murder ?' 'Have you got a diz-ease?'
A pebble hit Barrington on his
aristocratic ear.
' Stop
that!' he fumed. Another
pebble bounced off his neck. 'And stop that as well!' This only invoked a
shower of stones, orange peels, toffee papers, spits, sherbet sticks, and
incessant tauntings. In
a frenzy
, under a non-stop
barrage of ridicule and missiles,
Soon the pony outstripped the penny-rich children, leaving them in their
laughter-diced air. In the cage
At a steady trot Gulio Caesar headed for Puckoon.
God in heaven, what was
this ?
Mr Wretch stood up and went vest-white.
' L
-l-look!'
He pointed an obstetrical finger. There coming down the hill, were three
terrified men on a bike, pursued by - was
it ?
-
the
panther! Gulio tried to rein, but the pony had seen it,
about turned, whinnied and bolted towards the border. The three men on the bike
shot past the cart, screaming and saying the rosary; the panther changed its
stride, leaped on to the cage, and started slashing down at the cowering
Barrington.
Hypodermic at the ready, Mr Wretch
sat rooted with fear.
'Stick eet in-
a his
bum!' shouted Gulio over the noise.
Mr Wretch stood up, stumbled, and
fell needle first into Gulio's thigh; he gave one loud shriek then fell into a
deep smiling-faced Neapolitan sleep. 1
Haring past them went a lorry with
the Republic militia, the bulb horn clearing the way. At the wheel sat Sergeant
Major Kevin Grady who last week was a private, his rapid promotion due to the
discovery of his commanding officer's boots under his wife's bed; every night
since he had looked under the bed for further promotion. All were converging on
the church where Father Rudden now stood over four unconscious Ulster Police,
while a fifth had escaped to the border post and was shouting insults.
'You can have 'em for ten pounds in
the poor box,' was the priest's reply, at which moment MacGillikudie and Co,
both brakes and all hope gone, shot into the churchyard and hit a tombstone.
All three were catapulted up through the stained glass window. Ah Pong fell
unconscious on the organ keyboard and a mighty atonal chord ensued. Milligan
and the Sergeant were hurtled into the middle of the organ pipes, which began
to fall like iron rain, clanging into the empty aisle.
Outside the militia truck drew up
with a screech and out shot a crowd in mixed uniforms who immediately threw a
cordon round each other. Guffaws came from troops at the Customs post.
Enraged Sergeant Grady barked, 'Take
aim, one round over dem laffin bastards' heads - fire!' To the accompaniment of
clanging organ pipes a volley rent the air.
