Truth is Written

The new edition would feature the latest B. Bluster letter, and though rather ameliorative in design and tone, I knew from my own experience of the local humans that it would more than likely tickle their embers and sure enough on the following Monday morning, a small group had gathered outside The Martlet, two Screaming Deanes (Mary and that big lug of a brother) among them, their signs and banners bopping once again like babies grossly hoisted by drunk parents.  There had been no outside protest in weeks – why indeed when they had already caused enough damage to the paper with advertisers splitting in droves?  Any excuse, you might say.  And the weekend had seen that good-natured missive fester.

The factions appeared to have assembled under one canopy now – that would be the Gullivers; psychoses had merged and formed a one-minded determination to rid the world altogether of Berrills and Martlets alike. 

Before I could get inside, Mary Deane had a word or two for me.

‘Give it up,’ she said.  ‘Your days are numbered.’

‘Why are you back here?’ I responded, a sternness in my voice which I had never used with the Deanes before – I was sincerely afraid of them.  ‘Haven’t your fires already burned out? Will you not let the young man lie in peace?’

‘As long as this newspaper supports those charlatans, Ernest Gilgan will never rest.  Justice needs doing.’

‘What does it have to do with you anyway?  You weren’t related to the chap.’

‘I was.  In a fashion.  He was a son of the community, you know.  As much a brother to me as this fella beside.’

‘So too are the Berrills,’ I said.  ‘That name is well-regarded in this town, I’ll have you know – if you don’t – once upon a time, at the very least.’

‘That’s not why I’m back.  I’m here about the letter.  It contained a rotten attack on the practice of astrology which was unconscionable and it should never have been published.’

‘Looks like rain,’ I said finally, and skittered off inside.

Despite this resurgence of protest, there was some kindness looking my way this day, for I received upon entering the office the first affable study from Caitriona following weeks and weeks of avoidance.  An old shared bemusement returned.  I nodded and smiled at her but didn’t say anything.  I went to boil the kettle for a cup of coffee.  After the kettle stopped there was quiet and I heard Lavery in his office talking to someone on the phone using the buoyant high pitch he always donned when in the business of bollocks.  He was in early.  Normally wouldn’t show up for another hour or so.  Maybe today was the day it would all end. 

‘It’s still going on,’ Caitriona said to me, suddenly, the first word from her since the day I insinuated her betrayal.  She might have got in earlier, but I’d been keeping my head down even more since that incident with her husband, which was a humiliating defeat in the sober light of day.

I imagined she was talking about the Screaming Deanes outside and I was about to send her my reply when Lavery interrupted us from his doorway.  ‘Come here to me, you!’ he growled, and sank back into his office, with a clear expectation of me following.  I took a huge swig from the black coffee before going in. 

‘In trouble again,’ I said to Caitriona, bemusement on full, and she beamed and shook her head with the old mock-disapproval.

This renewed communication with the woman had me bounding into Lavery’s office all zipped as though it was a flagon of coffee I’d just knocked back. 

First thing I noticed when I went in:  he’d taken the Montescu martlet off the wall and it now lay on the floor against the file cabinet.    

‘Been on the phone all morning,’ said Lavery to me.  ‘Brady at The Times.  The bloody Times.  Wanting to know what the odds are of us surviving.’

‘Can you blame him?’

He bristled.  He knew right well it was a good story.  And I knew deep down he was thrilled to have one of the nationals calling. 

‘I suppose you’ve seen the protestors are back.’

‘Don’t start.’

‘It was that letter.  You know, I could have told you . . . ‘

‘You could have told me shite,’ he riposted.  ‘I knew what I was doing.  I knew the risks.’

‘Yet you did it anyway.  Fair play.  There’s a merry prankster in you.  For what it’s worth, I’m glad you printed it.’

‘Well,’ he said.  Then a burdened silence.

‘How are we looking now?’ I asked.  ‘I mean to say:  have we long to go in our jobs?’

‘I couldn’t tell you.  I know that’s a pretty horrendous thing to say, but you shouldn’t really know about those affairs anyway.  Let’s be clear.  The only reason you know is because you made yourself present when your presence was unwanted.  You do remember breaking in that night, don’t you?’

‘I do.’  I opted not to say sorry again.  Maybe it was the subeditor in me, moderating an already expressed effect.  Instead, I redirected to Montescu.

‘The Berrills found a seller for their one,’ I told him, eyeing the almost-discarded painting.  ‘The man’s showing up today, I think.’

‘Oh right, the bloody painting.  How much will they get for it?’

‘Not entirely sure yet, but all the signs say he’s a rich fella.’

Lavery’s eyeballs were wide and misty like he hadn’t slept in a few days.  But even though he was out of sorts, I could see now he saw me as a lower level confidante.  Why else would he have called me in to the office?  He wanted to workshop his unrest with someone and hopefully come to an agreeable answer to everything.  Although not always a pleasant man, he did have some obliging qualities, so it was sad to see him now with far too much on his plate to accept any whimsy in his life.  In a surprisingly dull and earnest manner, he asked me to go to the Berrills and see if the man from Dunshaughlin would additionally purchase his martlet painting.  If he wanted another ‘original’, a sale could be arranged.  It felt reasonable to me, so I set off for the Berrills to try and catch them before the deal was done.  Remembering that the buyer was supposed to arrive in the morning, I decided to run there for fear of missing him, and nearly tripped over Mary Deane in my haste out of the building, half-stepping on her toes, which prompted her to try and brain me with her cardboard placard.  TRUTH IS WRITTEN IN THE STARS, it said.