the fuck is going on?’ asked Magee, ignoring the taunt. ‘Where did all this money come from?’
‘It’s the price of a Protestant soul!’ McCoy said, turning away.
‘Murphy the so-called Christian Brother paid in full for your flags,’ Billy said. ‘Sent it over with a simpleton to give to McGuffin. Rubbing salt in the wound.’
‘And he’s been drinking it ever since? That’s money’s that’s owed!’
‘Seventy-six trombones led the big parade,’ McCoy shouted, ‘but not one of them could rescue my wee girl from the clutches of the mother of all harlots.’ Magee felt the blood drain from his face. It was bad enough to be mixed up with McCoy at a time like this, but to watch him squandering the bunting money might be more than his life was worth. Magee lifted a porter bottle and broke it with one gentle blow on the edge of the counter. It brought him the attention he required. There was no need for him to raise his voice now, for the bar had fallen quiet, each drinker lapsing into uneasy anticipation of what was coming. ‘I asked what the fuck was going on?’ he repeated. The money for the bunting, what was left of it, lay like thirty pieces of silver on the counter.
‘You’re a bollocks! It was you who scared her away in the first place!’
‘Call me a bollocks one more time …’ Magee said softly.
‘I’ll call you a bollocks for that’s all you are. A useless, good-for-nothing bollocks. Supposed to be a hard man.’
‘I’ve been tramping through fucking mountains all night,’ Magee replied. ‘I get back to find you and your cronies drinking the last of my money. So I’m asking for the last time, what the fuck is going on?’
‘“What the fuck is going on? What the fuck is going on?” Put on another record. Isn’t it obvious what the fuck is going on? We’re washed up! Finished! Over and out!’ He turned his back on Magee and called for whiskey.
Billy the barman didn’t move, sensing the approaching denouement. The rest of the drinkers hung on every word, every syllable. Normally they enjoyed a good saloon bar brawl, all the niceties duly observed, all the formalities adhered to. They appreciated the slow build-up, the measured tones of sweet reason, the petulant hint of outraged complaint in Magee’s persistent questioning and the way he could build on the one motif. But even as they watched developments they looked cautiously round for the best escape route for when the fur began to fly in earnest.
‘The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away,’ said the man of God. ‘Blessed be the name of the Lord.’ He climbed off the stool and, swaying slightly, came over to his partner and put one arm round his shoulder. Magee let it lie there. ‘A drink for my buddy, here, barman,’ ordered McCoy. ‘Mister Magee is a decent man. He’ll have a drink with me before we discuss our little business arrangement. In fact we’ll have a drink all around, Billy boy, and have one yourself, to welcome home the prodigal son from the far hills.’
He lurched towards the bar, scattering some of the coins lying there on to the floor. No one moved. Billy quietly locked the till and pocketed the key without moving from where he stood, Magee turned to the rest of the company. ‘How long has he been like this?’ he demanded. ‘How long have youse been drinking my money?’
They looked away uneasily. This was a turn of events they had not bargained for, typical of a Portadown man.
‘He’s been like this all day, Mister Magee. He’s wild upset. You’ll get no sense out of him.’ The voice from the doorway was that of Patrick Pearse McGuffin. He had crept silently into the bar during the altercation to scour the ashtrays for dogends and the glasses for dregs of stout. His appearance was more than Magee could take. ‘Get out of here you renegade! This is no place for you!’ He lifted a chair and threw it at the turncoat. McGuffin snatched up the copy of the Irish News lying incongruously on the bar, ripped out the back page with its news of Easter Week dogs running at Celtic Park, and made good his escape before the butcher’s boot connected with his backside.
But when Magee turned again to face McCoy, the menace had gone from his voice. The presence of the turncoat in a loyalist domain had unnerved him, taken the wind from his sails. A few of the men sitting closest to the door risked an unobtrusive sip of their pints, sensing with relief tinged with disappointment that the entertainment was over.
‘You’re nothing but a fucking liability,’ Magee said. He dropped the broken bottle on the floor and grabbed McCoy by the lapels.
‘As vinegar to the teeth and as smoke to the eyes, so is a sluggard to them that send him,’ McCoy said. He located the stub of a roll-up and tried to bring a match into contact with it.
‘If you ever cross my path again, so help me Jesus I’ll personally brain you,’ Magee said softly. He lifted McCoy off his feet and brought him close, so close that their faces were nearly touching. Then he head-butted him, suddenly and savagely between the eyes. The crunch of bone on bone could be heard across the room. McCoy fell against the counter, the blood already spurting from his nose. Magee turned defiantly to the rest of the company, inviting by gesture anyone who wanted trouble to step forward. There were no takers. He surveyed the silent tableau for a moment, spat on the floor, turned on his heel and walked out. Through the frosted glass of the window they could see his silhouette swinging a last kick at the battered chassis of the Salvation Wagon before heading off up English Street.
Though careful not to get too involved, the drinkers in the bar sensed that McCoy would want to restore his dignity by standing a few more rounds. As long as the hard man had really gone there would be no harm in humouring him. It wasn’t every day that the Reverend was in the chair. They winked their approval of the way he had handled himself and allowed Billy to refill their glasses.
‘Sing me a wee song about Portadown,’ shouted McCoy. ‘Does anyone know a Portadown song, for if they do they’re a better man than myself!’ His voice was nasal, for the blood had congealed beneath his swollen nose.
‘That’s a good one all right,’ said Billy the barman, helping himself to a double scotch and most of the change.
‘Portadown!’ shouted McCoy above them in his best pulpit voice. He spat blood across the floor. Already he was feeling a lot better. ‘Do you know what the trouble with Portadown boys is? They’re always trying to be more Protestant than the rest of us. The meanest crowd of shites on the face of the earth …’ he was warming to his topic now as the crowd quietly urged him on ‘… I’ve seen me and the wee girl reduced to begging round the doors, but do you think the hoors would give you as much as a cup of water? They wouldn’t give you the smell of their fart if they could help it! But I’ve turned my back on Portadown, I’ll tell you straight. I shall wipe Jerusalem as a man wipeth a dish, wiping it and turning it upside down …’
But at the memory of his daughter the tears sprang into his eyes. His hand had begun to tremble, and the whiskey he was clutching spilled over the bar. He turned grey. A glazed look came stealing over his face. Billy leaped across the counter, cursing, but he was too late to stop McCoy collapsing on the floor. He writhed in the sawdust in the throes of a fit, turning up the whites of his eyes and gasping for breath. Billy hauled him roughly to his feet and dragged him towards the door. McCoy put up no resistance, allowing himself to be thrown without further ceremony into the alley outside. A few of the drinkers peered out after him, staying well back in case Billy took umbrage and began barring wholesale. They saw his convulsions in the gutter, and saw that the turncoat McGuffin had crept out from under the van and was coming to his aid. Leave well enough alone, they thought, stealing back from the window to finish their pints.
But
