After the Lockout by Darran McCann Read Free Book Online

faint but growing louder, like it’s coming from under the ground. Madden looms. I make out the chapel spire first. Then the Parochial Hall. A handsome if not beautiful façade of plain rose window above double doors. At the top of the town, the Parochial House, proud and immoveable as a Papal Bull. The three Church buildings all sit on slightly higher ground than the rest of the village, which is why they’re the only buildings in Madden that have never flooded. The National School is the only other building in town worth a damn, and it too is controlled, if not owned, by the dog-collars. Same story in every town in Ireland. But I see in the gaslight that flags, yes, red flags , are draped from every window, and bunting stretches across the street. Everything red, red is the colour. My God, Charlie said I was a hero, but the place looks like Paris in ’48! The subterranean throbbing is identifiable now. It’s a drum. There’s fiddles and accordions too, coming from the Parochial Hall. We move towards the music.
    â€˜They’re holding a dance in your honour,’ Charlie says.
    â€˜People’s awful proud of you, Victor,’ says Turlough. We stop outside the Parochial Hall, its grey façade is broken by splashes of frenetic colour behind the steamed-up windows. The noise is cacophonous. ‘Come on, we’re very late.’
    A young priest with a mop of blond hair emerges from the Hall. He nods and hails me with a toothy smile. ‘You must be Victor?’ I nod. He takes his watch from his pocket and fidgets with it in a way that reminds me of Alfie Byrne, then looks distractedly up the street towards the Parochial House. ‘Thank goodness you’re here, we’re supposed to finish up at eleven and it’s past that now.’
    â€˜Gone half past, I make it,’ I say, glancing at my watch. The others look at theirs, then back at me confusedly.
    Of course, they’re all twenty-five minutes behind me, I keep forgetting. They didn’t bother to tell us in Fron Goch about the so-called Daylight Saving Hours. Apparently we’re in line with Greenwich now. After being released I walked around for weeks not knowing about it.
    â€˜I seem to be ahead of everyone. My watch still gives Dublin Mean Time,’ I say.
    When we get the Republic we’ll fix the clocks, and no more of this Greenwich nonsense. How supine are people who allow the government to overrule the clock – the clock ? It’s frustrating, though, that everyone else’s watch is slow. Being right is cold comfort when the whole world is wrong. ‘I’ll be in directly,’ I tell the priest.
    He nods and turns but as he opens the door he is almost knocked over by a boy of maybe seventeen, who staggers out and around the side of the building. Out of sight, he retches violently.The priest shakes his head and goes inside. I take my suitcase around to the other side of the building, looking for a shadow so I can change back into my uniform. When I’m changed, I spit on my hands and pat down my hair. A shave would be good, a bit of soap could do wonders, but perching the sloped hat on my head, I suppose I probably look all right.
    â€˜Come on, you’re gorgeous,’ Charlie calls, and I step into the light just as a tall figure all in black strides past Charlie and Turlough, ignoring them as they call out their salutes. He walks with an impressive sprightliness, gripping his cane like Phil Shanahan grips a hurl, and throws open the door of the Parochial Hall without breaking his stride. The old bastard looks like he hasn’t aged a day.

    Maggie answers the door with a grimace of condolence but her expression gives way to horror when she sees the battering you have taken. She rushes you inside the house, scattering her younger brothers and sisters with matriarchal authority, and lies you down on the sofa by the range. It’s warm and smells of baking bread.