He Walked Away From Her Straight Into the Nightmare He Used to Be

THE HUNGER & THE DANCE 2.33

image created by Jean Miller

Well, didn’t it start with me bein’ a right bastard, though. Belligerent and quarrelsome, full askin’ for a fight here at Maccauley’s pub, just at the edge o’ the Monto here, that’s all.

Fuckin’ with this bloke the room’s cooled towards, who’s marked himself a stranger with his northern dialect, who wants to take Lizbeth upstairs, get his hole when a room’s free, so he does. Pesterin’ and pushin,’ so I am, pullin’ sleights o’ hand with me pickpocketin’ skills, to annoy him. ’Cause haven’t I got me eye on Lizbeth meself, for a reason…

The year 1909, or is it 1910? Maybe 1908. Can’t say. Don’t recall. Times’re lean for the Irish prostitutes stubborn enough to refuse entertainin’ the British soldiers, though, that’s facts. And this bloke who’s stopped in?

Well, amn’t I prowlin’ the joint like a stiff-limbed tom with me ears laid back, I’ll admit. This twat from up north, himself’s hardly a regular this lowlife side o’ Dublin, is he? And isn’t ol’ Garraty itchin’ to have the head bate off me, if nothin’ else.

Lookit, I’m tryin’ to act sociable, all right? Give yer boy Garraty a feckin’ break here, it’s been a spell, I’m rusty. On a good day I’ve hardly the couth on me to probe at some twat’s business or politics decorously. Céad míle fáilte, hundred thousand welcomes, in me arse, how’s that.

Actin’ the maggot, makin’ the attempt, til Lizbeth’s had enough of ol’ Garraty, at least. The only one o’ the prostitutes who’ll still speak to me, you know. Since word’s got around about the Madame, and about Dom Penrod bein’ murdered. Must be 1910, then. Or 2025, who’s to know.

“Feckin’ Garraty — ” When Liz’s eyes cut up at me, the third or fourth time I’ve lifted the northern bloke’s pocketbook? And Lizbeth makes a grab at the rosary on me neck. Like to yank a bad dog by the chain, and she don’t mean it as a flirt.

Ahh, I don’t even hear what she’s said to me after that, the anger’s on me so fast. With me vision gone mean and black —

Ayrn’t I half across the table, now I’ve noticed, pawin’ down the tight front of Lizbeth’s well-endowed dress. Droppin’ the act, all right, rude and tunnelin’ into her proud corset with a big mitt. Not full tatted yet, in these times, but I will be, soon enough —

“Christ!” Herself lettin’ out a squawk, wallopin’ at me, a glint of actual fear in her glare. “Hands off the goods, ya manky shitehawk!”

“Hm — ” Gruntin’, intent, as meself’s gropin’ about in there to get a hold o’ what a man wants…

“All right, mucker, here!” the bloke’s interjectin’, the Belfast on his tongue and himself out of his chair as well. “The fookin’ shape o’ ya, Christ!”

Aye, he don’t know better, noble sort, apparently, defendin’ the virtues of a prostitute at Maccauley’s. Fecksakes, mate, anyone who’s ever met ol’ Garraty more’n a minute knows it’s not her tits I’m at her for.

Isn’t it her laudanum between ’em I want?

The wee vial hung on a cheap necklace and buried in her bosom, I’ve seen it. I’ve seen her sip at it, discreet like, between johns. A dose o’ medicine for the ride, a cure-all for the nervous disorders, a ticket to ol’ Garraty havin’ no more fucks to give, d’ya know what I mean —

Well, but Lizbeth’s yelpin’ like I’m deflowerin’ her, see. And the bloke at the table with her, well, he and me, we haven’t met, have we?

He’s up and has me by the collar o’ me coat while I’ve got Lizbeth by the cheap necklace around her throat —

Grinnin’ fierce here, ayrn’t I? “C’mere, gimme a taste, Liz, take care o’ yer ol’ Garraty, this once, fer a charity — ”

“Jaysus, Mary, an’ Joseph, yer mad, ya thick bleedin’ psychotic!” Lizbeth’s brayin’ in me face here, fumblin’ for the blade she keeps in her garter, no sweet dolt for me these days, is there?

Ahh, isn’t it time nobody pities me anymore, not even the whoors I’ve profited.

“Only a taste, that’s all, calm me arse down fer me, will ya?” Mockin’, waggin’ me tongue at her like a pervert, and laughin’ at her. Christ, it’s not as if I can stomach meself, neither, you know, but don’t this get worse and worse.

Liz belts me across me face with the back of her hand, anyway, and that gives me a laugh, while I’m spittin’ blood. I don’t blame her a bit, who would?

“Let off her, feckin’ Garraty, ya half-blindered mutt!” one of the other prostitutes is yellin’, was that Bridget? Ahh, one of the Marys, I think, from their table by the band takin’ an intermission, and this is like to turn into a show, now, innit?

Sneerin’, then, yankin’ close to Lizbeth and droppin’ me tone: “Sure, don’t I need a treatment, d’ya figure?”

And don’t she look stricken, confronted by her complicity in the state o’ me soul in the middle of Maccauley’s, quite sudden.

“Ahh, he’s swalled, wrote aff, inne, can’t y’give ’im what he’s after!” her john’s intercedin’ on me behalf, no idear but to be disgusted at me as well. “If a taste’ll have ’im aff ya, give ’im a taste, then!”

“Ahh, sure, an’ who’ll spare the pence fer the bottle, this cock-thievin’ bastard!” Lizbeth objects, shrill and furious.

“Cock-thievin’ — bloody hell, we’ll call it a return favor here, so!” Absolutely radiant with sarcasm, I says to her, “C’mon, now, Liz, couldn’t yerself find a way to trade me arse fer it, then?”

“Jaysus Almighty, you’d better watch yerself, Garraty.” Liz has the decency to look alarmed, don’t she.

Droppin’ her tone, concerned for me fuckin’ life, maybe. Or her business reputation, at least. Her wide eyes dartin’ around at the eavesdroppin’ looksees at Maccauley’s…

Face to face with meself here, sure. As she’s been when she’s got me arse cleaned up for the Madame upstairs, yeah? Or better, sneakin’ off deeper into the Monto to moonlight as ol’ Garraty’s handler, at the posh French boss-whoor’s own place of business. To rent a wee fella out to some foreign high-brows or worldly seafarers visitin’ the fair city, more’n a time or a few, for a handful o’ coin in all involved parties’ pockets. ’Cause look, any slob visitin’ Dublin’s vice district can pop in to Bella Cohen’s to get himself whipped by a prostitute, but at the Madame’s, mate, you can pay to choke, beat, and rape a male one…

“Ahh, here, c’mere…” Tightenin’ me grip, pure suicidal with the rage on me, set on namin’ the sin we won’t mention —

But lookit, the Belfast john’s got an arm around me throat, now, like to throttle me unconscious. Good for him, proper fella, a Bona Fide traveler doin’ well enough to afford gettin’ his hole from a prostitute in Dublin, without doin’ crime for it first — in these times, eh?

And Maccauley himself’s come around the bar, stout, bald, and shoutin’ at me, knowin’ the bloke’s in trouble ’cause isn’t ol’ Garraty known to fight dirty —

“Feckin’ Garraty, y’feckin’ degenerate!” Cursin’, rollin’ his sleeves like he’ll enter the altercatin’. At his age, really.

Full exasperated, tryin’ to get by at his business, puttin’ up with our lot o’ charity cases. Beholden by generation and memory to keep us lads alive another night, if we’ll let him. This man like an uncle to us, who saw me dad’s brains across the bottles behind his bar, a number o’ years ago himself —

“Christ on a cross, boyo, y’ayr some bleedin’ nuisance…!”

Well, and Maccauley’s got me by the shoulder o’ me wool coat, while I’ve got Lizbeth by the cheap necklace she wears. Quite determined I’ll win that vial from her cleavage, so I am, as her Belfast john’s got a crook of an arm squeezed around me neck.

Set on blackin’ me arse out, so he is, with ol’ Maccauley arrived on behalf o’ the Irish rebels, that’s grand. The two men havin’ a sectarian conflict in each other’s faces, givin’ out at top volume over me stupid head while I get asphyxiated. What’s another drunk from County Galway on the floor of this Dublin pub…

“Fock off from me — ” I manage to splutter.

Speakin’ o’ some nuisance, eh? Lizbeth’s screechin’ and this bloke’s cursin’ and meself’s on for pure obliteration by a means or another, God save us. Well, but maybe the john thinks Maccauley’s got me, ’cause he takes a hand off me, bad judgment. Grabs Liz by the elbow, so he does, worse yet. Hard enough to make her yip, yankin’ rough at his interests, breathin’ in me ear and reasonin’ with a mad yoke —

“Yull hafta g’wan an’ fook yerself, lad. This hole belongs to me, what I paid fer it!”

And don’t I hook a left fist blind up o’er me shoulder, on me bad eye side, in fact, and land a quick, solid bam to the bridge o’ the cunt’s nose. Gettin’ him to let off her, ’cause one, most don’t expect a swing from the left, do they, and two, fuckin’ the women is one thing, mate, but hurtin’ ’em’s another —

Sure, so that bloke goes down, don’t he, hittin’ the wood floor. And here, Maccauley’s hollerin’ at Sorley — is Sorley here, then? Or maybe it’s Ade. No Ferg tonight, you know, scrawny lad, he’s dead o’ the fever under the bridge, some months ago, maybe a year or two, if I recall —

Roarin’ regardless, Maccauley’s tellin’ some livin’ soul, anyway. One of a few dozen at this pub, at least, who want no part of feckin’ Garraty bein’ around these days, that’s clear.

“Bloody hell, would ya go an’ get Lochlainn, fer Christsake!”

’Cause hasn’t Lochlainn Murphy always been the solution to yer boy Garraty. And ayrn’t I seein’ red at the mention o’ the eejit’s name —

*Join the saga on Substack, where the series is being released as it’s written…*

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