The Ginger Man - J. P. Donleavy [96]
Sebastian opened the front door, waited an instant and then with a massive heave slammed it shut The whole house trembled. He stood absolutely still in the hall. He heard Skully's running feet coming around the house. They stopped Then the swinging gate squealing. This was it
Sebastian turned on his heel and into the morning room picking up his bag and closing the curtains. Skully will come back from the bottom of the block and think he's got Sebastian, shrewdest of beasts, Dangerfield, trapped. Not so, Egbert, just not so. Opening the kitchen door quietly, locking it Take it easy heart, save your beating till later and stop jumping round my chest. Moving across the garden and lifting himself up on top of the chicken house. On top, balancing himself, the sound of breaking. The rotting wood gave way beneath his feet. He caught the top of the wall with both hands. Paper bag came apart. God's merciful teeth, me loot lost. Control. Full steam ahead. Over this wall. A loud crash of glass at his feet passed through the top of a cold frame. For Christ's sake, twisted Jesus. Looking at the back of this house for eyes. Whoa, woman looking at me from the window. What to do? Smile, by God, smile at all costs. Come through smiling. She's scared shitless. Just as well she won't be out trying to befoul me little lifeboat or taking brooms or bricks to me. Yell to her.
"I'm sorry full moon tonight I mean I'm mad, my wife's had an accident"
He ran between the houses and across the front stingy garden and flowerbed and with a slightly miscalculated leap cleared the iron picket fence. Put the fear of God into me, picket fences and balls don't mix. He landed falling forward on his knees, and set off at a fast run down the street Please Skully don't be waiting behind one of these bushes or walls because my heart won't stand it and the ould lungs are coming up out of me mouth. Pity to lose my well earned plunder. Egbert will never suspect that this is it. He'll wait outside the house for weeks waiting for me to slip the white flag out between the curtains.
And
I
Won't.
24
It's said people of letters and fine conversation frequent this place and they call it a Palace. I'm keeping out of sight In my pocket is a ticket bought from the British & Irish Steam Packet Co., Ltd. Guarantees to get this flesh of mine to a civilized shore. At eight tonight Signed and sealed for delivery.
Sebastian lowered malt Walked out of this public house and moved swiftly under the portico of the Bank of Ireland. If this roof ever fell, boys, not even Skully could find me. Running across the street through the front gates of Trinity. Stopping at the notice board. Never know. May be a message from God. Peek into the porter's lodge. All of them in there smiling and rubbing hands round a nice cozy fire in the grate. Wearing nice black uniforms. Ready to give any little hope or help.
"Good morning, Mr. Dangerfield."
Boys, I give you me grin of guilt and paste it on the notice board because I won't be needing it soon. And good morning full of rashers and fresh eggs from the hot chicken rumps with coffee hopping on the hearth to the sound of the meaty sausages splitting sides in the ould thing of a pan. Good morning and how are you? Student's morning. Come follow me, students. Get the noses out from between the sheets of paper and get some of this air. You don't want this security, bad for digestion. You want something better than that Out under the trees. I am the piper. Beep beep. You up there in the garret with your arse white with sitting. Avast Ahoy and avast. Little right rudder. Left unfashionable. I see you all up there in your windows before dawn when you think there's no one looking, extending the piss stains down the walls. They say it has seasoned the rock. It's said the Junior Dean was hit on the head with a sackful of it wrapped in the Irish Standard. And don't think I've forgot when you invited me to tea and we sat round the winter fire friendly and full of cake.
Dangerfield was skipping, using the rotary step. Moving along the raised concrete at the side of the library. My passion purple, my pendant pink. Trinity covered by lovely soft rain and all its smooth carpets of grass, In the doorways over there are milk bottles which I drank. Handy for hangovers. And down here is the printing house, set back from the silvery black street where they print the exams. My little tortured dreams of breaking in to see. And along this iron fence with the chain from post to post with tops of tiny spires. And the trees in the square. Branches thrown like stale hair. And the lamp posts and inside the shiny glass. Boot scrapers on the granite porches. Seagulls wheeling from the stone buildings and standing in the street screaming. No world outside. Or hearts boiled in grief. Or scheming, cruel dying eyes. Nor spades hurrying into the soil for gold. Just micks.