Electric Acorn 14 : Fiction : Tommy Murray

Electric Acorn 14: Short Stories:

Tommy Murray

Face to Face

"Patrick, hi Patrick," Pat McDonald raised himself from his slumber and gazed in the direction of the hall door. There was urgency about that call, he figured, sounding as it did somewhere between a cry for help and a command. He didn't recognise the voice, which made the call even more puzzling.

"Patrick, open up," the call came again. He had just come to the conclusion that he was dreaming when he heard his name being called again. It's definitely a stranger, certainly no one that he knew, he figured. The stressing of the first syllable at the expense of the second left him in no doubt that whoever the voice belonged to it certainly didn't belong to anyone in these parts. Then there was the tone, the high pitch. Was it indeed male or female? It was definitely a borderline case. It would have been more suited to a different situation, he thought, sport perhaps,' hey ref,' 'kick it', that sort of thing. Then the time factor, what on earth could be so urgent at this hour of the morning. He glanced at his watch. Half past eight, couldn't they have left it for another couple of hours. Could the car have been stolen? Had the television aerial blown down. Highly unlikely, he thought. An eight-year-old Fiat was not the sort of vehicle that would attract a thief and what wind there had been during the night wasn't worth talking about. No this was a mysterious situation and one worthy of an immediate response.

"I'll be with you in a minute," he said rolling out of the settle bed while at the same time frantically trying to get one leg into the trousers. Could it be one of these temporary postmen, bringing yet another letter from his relations in America? People that he had never met yet insisted on writing letter after letter, most of which he didn't bother to read let alone answer. He discounted the idea when he recalled getting a letter only two days earlier.

"I must read that letter," he muttered to himself pulling on his trousers and running his fingers through his thick mop of black hair and stumbling towards the hall door just as the caller was calling out his name for the third time.

Maybe he could put the whole thing down to the events of the previous twenty-four hours. Yes, he wasn't yet fully awake and maybe the hangover was playing tricks on him.

He remembered meeting Hughie Traynor in the Greyhound Bar after they had drawn the dole. They had gone for just one drink but this soon became two and before they knew it they were well on. Soon other images began to reform before him. He remembered talking to some stranger. and singing. "God, I sang too," he half muttered, And I bought a round of drinks, for the tourists. I had a pint and Hughie had one Just then the head count was interrupted by the voice through the letter box. He instinctively plunged his hand into his pocket and scooped up a fistful small change letting the coins slip through his fingers in an effort to determine the exact amount he had left after his day on the town.

Other more sobering and accusing images began to appear before him as he reached for the huge bolt on the door.

"Coming," he groaned, as one particular image loomed larger than the rest, a picture of a woman with yellow hair and purple fingernails ." A miserable little peasant " her exact words came loud and clear. "You insulted me "she had stated.

"You're out of order Pat," he remembered Hughie's words.

"Come on Pat I'll leave you home, it's for your own good. That wasn't very nice. She was only trying to be friendly." He vaguely recalled leaving with his mate.

Just why Pat McDonald even bothered to bolt the door before retiring for the night was something that he never gave much thought to. He had no money and his mongrel was guaranteed to repel even the most determined thief. Indeed the very look of the place would have been more than enough to put any robber off. He smiled at the thought of a burglar going to all that trouble for the measly sum of seven Euros and thirty four-cent.

Even as he grabbed the huge bolt with both hands Pat McDonald's thoughts were on the previous day in the town's most popular watering house. That he had made a fool of himself he had now accepted. That he would never drink again he had made up his mind as out of season resolutions began to take root deep in his mind. I'll never touch the stuff again he secretly vowed.

"Just a second," Pat McDonald's latest response to his early morning caller smacked of impatience. "I want to let the dog out in the yard," he said as he ushered the mongrel unceremoniously through the back door. "He does bite you know," He said as he returned to the task of withdrawing the huge bolt. He was ready to face whatever the day would bring.

After all I'm single. I have no one to answer to except Sparky and he would be unlikely to complain as long as he kept him supplied with juicy bones. I 'm not married and I'm my own boss. He half uttered the words as he prepared to open the door. No sir, there will be no females in this house. Pat McDonald withdrew the bolt and threw open the oak panelled door.

According to race, temperament and class people react to different situations in different ways. In Latin countries they tend to deal with shock by much gesturing and waving of the hands. It is a well-known fact that people in colder climates tend to deal with similar situations by displaying a cooler and more dignified outer appearance. This might be in complete contrast to their deeper feelings. Still they would always manage to keep their dignity.. Pat Mc Donald however had not a drop of Latin blood in his veins and as for keeping his dignity in times of shock or stress there is no record of his being ever in the situation which confronted him at the hall door of number 56 Castle street. Prior to this his attitude to most situations had been dictated by the amount if any of drink that he had taken. In the hangover stage it is more likely that large beads if sweat would begin to form on his forehead.

Pat McDonald bit hard on his lower lip and brushed the beadsof sweat from his face. Somewhere in the depth of his soul a dog barked, then another. In the distance a bugle blew. There was hunt on and it was heading in his direction. There was little doubt that he was the hunted. There was no escape. He was cornered and he was about to be torn to pieces on his own doorstep.He began to remember the advice that Hughie had given him. "You're out of order That's no way to talk to a lady "He tried to talk but no words came. He looked at the figure in front of him. Every feature seemed to inflict a further wound in already suffering body, the purple fingernails, the mop of yellow hair, the smile. Better to focus on the smile, he thought. He would try a smile himself. It was his only hope. When Pat McDonald smiled

It usually meant that he was on his third pint. What the hell, if a smile can save him from the hounds he would smile. The power of two confronting smiles cannot be underestimated. Few people could remain silent for long in the face of such pressure and Pat McDonald and Gerti Montgomery were no exceptions. Suddenly the sound of barking seemed to fade. The hounds had caught up with their quarry

"Pleased to meet you I'm your cousin from America I only arrived last evening and I didn't want to disturb you So I stayed in the Hotel and I will be staying with you for a few weeks. You got my letter.?"

Biography

Tommy Murray is co-ordinator to The Meath VEC Adult Writer's Circle. He has been published widely and has given readings in Ireland and the US. He has received a number of awards including The Nora Fahy in Ennis, The Gerard Manly Hopkins in Kildare, The Allingham in Donegal and the Patrick Kavanagh in Dundalk. He writes regularly for Ireland's Own. He has published work in journals such as Riverine, The Drumlin, Fortnight, The Edgeworth Papers, Stroan and others.