A World of Rancour
By sean mcnulty
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‘There he is now, boyo,’ said McDaid, as Noely Farron walked in. ‘Aren’t you in luck today?’
‘Talk to him, will ya?’ asked Taafe. ‘Catch yourself on.’
I was ready to agree with Taafe. Noely Farron was not a welcoming sort. He slimed into the bar, sneered at Staunton and the wolfhound, and sat himself as far away from everyone else as possible. I rarely spoke to Noely. Whenever in Murphy’s, he looked around him in a genocidal way which made people steer well clear of him. His head was always sunk into this enormous bog-brown duffle coat when he came in moving through space like a tank with a little head popping out of it (Taafe called him the Tank Man). But the need to know more about Da McNamee urged me to push ahead with the dreaded inquisition.
It took me a while to sidle up to Farron but eventually I did. Beginning with some soft parley, with my guard up continually to deflect his serrated digs and hold momentum, I soon settled into an extended conversation with him. He was a mean bastard at first of course but he loosened up after some time and I quickly realised that these grumblers weren’t all they were cracked up to be. Sitting there by themselves with their sour mugs on display – they were mad for a gallery, has to be said. A grumbler needs someone to grumble at after all. Upon realising I had ears that could be reasonably chewed off, Noely Farron softened and welcomed me into his world of rancour.
‘McNamee, I know, a complete scumbag,’ he told me. ‘I knew him back in the day, a blathering little fool. Never worked a day in his life. Always up to no good, and going on and on about this and that, no end of the shite.’
‘How did you meet the dirty fucking scumbag?’ I asked (I used harsh language too in the hope of getting on Noely’s side on the matter).
‘Well, there was a bunch of us back in the day; we used to meet sometimes out the road there in Ravensdale. Larry Coyle. Pat Klerkin. Mary O’Connor. A few others. Those of us with an interest in the history of the town. Kind of a writer’s group. Someone met that lunatic McNamee in a pub one night and invited him along. I certainly didn’t want him there. No class about him at all.’
‘A Dundalk writer’s group, ah. And Pat Klerkin was there?’
‘Surely. He set the thing up.'
‘Oh, so you’ve known Paddy for a while then,’ I said. ‘I’d no idea.’
‘Ah, God, I’ve known him for donkey’s. Sure isn’t his daughter seeing my lad now?’
‘Really? Paidi?’
‘Yeah, you know my boy? Ah, sure you’d be about the same age as him. They’ve been going out with each other for a while now. It was about time too. Me and Pat used to talk about them two matching up when they were younger. Took a while, but they got there.’
I took a drink. Pat Klerkin had one daughter. Her name was Emer and she was my wife. I chose not to fall off my seat as there was wolfhound piss down there, so I just took another drink.
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Comments
Particularly enjoyed the
Particularly enjoyed the beginning of this, when the reader just tumbles into the situation. It might be helpful for newcomers if you indicated at the top that it's part of a longer piece - I didn't realise at first so was a bit confused. However, was so taken with this one that I went in search of the others.
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... and just realised that CC
... and just realised that CC 46 is the clue! It takes me a while sometimes.
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