After the Lockout by Darran McCann Read Free Book Online Page B

Stanislaus gripped his stick in his fist and bounded furiously down the stairs. By the time he reached theParochial Hall Aidan was gone and only Charlie and Turlough sat on the buggy. They called their greetings but he didn’t stop to acknowledge them.
    Inside, smoke, sweat, music and colour blasted Stanislaus’s senses. Musicians clattered ever faster, all aggression and artless volume, and the wood floor vibrated like the skin of a drum under thudding feet and bodies crashing to and fro. It barely passed as dancing, this hauling and mauling. Overhead was a banner fashioned from an old green tablecloth that read Erin Go Bragh Welcome Home Victor. Stanislaus felt suddenly vertiginous. Standing near the door, tapping his foot and observing passively, was Father Daly. He turned white when he saw Stanislaus.
    â€˜Is this how you supervise an event? I said teetotal,’ Stanislaus seethed.
    â€˜I haven’t seen anyone taking drink.’
    â€˜Open your eyes, man.’ People would always come up with schemes for concealing liquor but a good priest would be wise to them. Stanislaus tutted disgustedly at the curate’s failure. ‘It’s well past eleven.’
    â€˜Victor has just arrived. I thought another few minutes wouldn’t be any harm.’
    Stanislaus stalked away. Further discussion would only aggravate him. He moved towards the stage at the top of the hall, and word of his arrival spread perceptibly as he moved through the crowd. The dancers became less frenetic, then stopped altogether. It was like water dousing a flame. As Stanislaus ascended the stage, the musicians stopped playing and held their silent fiddles and banjos and bodhrans guiltily. Standing centre stage, he didn’t have to wait long for silence.
    â€˜It’s very late. The dance is over. Don’t anyone make any noise on your way home,’ he said. The crowd looked back dumbly. ‘I said this dance is over. Good night to you all.’
    â€˜Victor is here!’ cried a voice from the back of the hall.
    Everyone turned. The hall seemed suddenly bigger with two hundred people facing away rather than towards him. Men wrestled past each other, women too, to converge on the doorway, where Victor Lennon now stood. He wore a tattered military uniform, bandolier and big sloped hat. Had he changed his clothes? Shrewd. He was a striking sight in the uniform.
    â€˜I’m sure the bishop won’t object to another few reels, since I’ve just arrived,’ Victor called out, crisp and clear, the voice of a man who knew how to project. A musician ran a bow across fiddle strings and waited to see what would happen. Stanislaus and Victor locked eyes on one another over the heads of the people. ‘Sure you wouldn’t, Your Grace?’ said Victor, jabbing the words mercilessly precisely. The dizziness was returning to Stanislaus. The fiddler scratched the opening notes of some fast reel, and the other musicians joined in. People clapped the rhythm and quickly the floor filled with dancers. It was as though Stanislaus wasn’t there. People queued up to shake Victor’s hand and shower him with kisses.
    â€˜Are you all right, Your Grace?’ whispered Father Daly, climbing onto the stage.
    â€˜For all you care, seminarian,’ said Stanislaus, mustering his strength to walk off the stage, beating a path through the people with his stick. Father Daly took hold of his elbow, and though he tried to shrug him off, there was little force in his protest.
    â€˜You don’t look well, Your Grace.’
    As they passed him in the doorway Victor Lennon nodded, smiled and gulped heartily from a huge bottle. He laughed as he looked at the bishop. Stanislaus wanted to stop him, to insist that the event was teetotal, but his knees buckled beneath him. Had Father Daly not held him up, he’d have crumpled.
    â€˜Are you all right, Father?’ said Charlie Quinn, smoking a cigarette with Turlough