The Familiar Tools

The police force was in truth a nebulous institution in Earlship.  You were more likely to see one of them at the bar in The Saltyman than outside in uniform assisting the public.  It was possible some of them were in the scrum right now, for God’s sake.  What I knew of them – from colloquy only, not knowing any of them personally – was that they were impressionable and as a consequence prime candidates for Gullivership.  You couldn’t really tell who was who anyway in the pounding heart of the punch-up.  After a while though, Brendan Colreavy’s rodentian features caught my eyes, his stubbly shrew-like visage flashing among the raining meat hooks.  In point of fact, he looked like he may have just come from demolishing the Pompadour cinema as he was in his grimy work-clothes and wore a utility belt lined with pliers, pencils, spanners, and other tools which could – if utilised wrongly – inflict violence upon the human person or its various creations.  Keeping what eyes I could on him, I was soon to observe he was carrying in his right paw a long slotted screwdriver, and not holding it in the traditional way one might for tightening a rivet on a cupboard door, but gripped onto for the purpose of sticking in a person.  

 

‘A tool!’ I said to Oran, not knowing if he’d hear me with the pair of us so busy fending off attackers.

‘A what?’ he said.

‘A weapon,’ I said.

‘What?’

‘Screwdriver,’ I shouted.

By the time I’d explained to him the manner of attack that was closing in on us, Colreavy was face to face with me.  It was clear I was the one he was after as he moved between the others away from Oran so as to be nearer myself.  Now I’ve been afraid of lots of things in my life but I don’t think I’ve ever experienced as much fear as I did in that particular moment – the cold gust associated with terror went through me like a water cannon blast from bottom to top, and I thought I might vomit sticks of ice right there.  Some of the other faces recoiled when they spotted the screwdriver in Colreavy’s hand.  Though they might have had battering us in mind, they weren’t intent on killing us and were perturbed by their ostensible leader’s decision.  As Colreavy edged in closer to me, I noticed a shadow coming overhead, like a tall building was falling over in the sky.  This was Oran’s arm coming down towards Colreavy and his furled mitt landed directly upon our enemy’s head like a perfectly aimed hammer on a nail.  I don’t think Oran even realised he had done it.  He was swinging his arms everywhere at that moment and Brendan Colreavy was unfortunate to receive the worst of it.  The repercussions of such a blow were such that the man was delivered to a state of severe unconsciousness and swallowed then by the moving crowd.

 

I had it in my mind that Colreavy was the leader of the Gullivers due to his popularity in the area, that big man around town reputation he had always had, and strived to maintain.  In fact, he wasn’t.  For the world did not stop subsequent to his defeat.  The crowd did not dissipate.   I imagined the lackeys would perish too as though he was Ming the Merciless or someone.  But our skirmish continued obliviously.  Until soon we were all tired out.  As our aggressors fell away, Oran and I were able to slip back into The Martlet leaving Mr Grant outside on the pavement deep in reflection and consternation as if he’d listened to Montescu’s stag and bird and they had both quietly whispered today’s date to him.

 

Oran stopped in the hallway holding his side and leaned for a moment against the wall.

‘Are you alright?’

‘Yeah, I’m grand.  Just a bit winded.’

I had thought temporarily he was invincible, forgetting the reality of his age.  His head was ruddy and delirious, but it was due to lassitude rather than soreness like he’d just run a few laps or had had his face in a bowl of hot lemon all morning.

 

Making our way up to the office, we were obstructed on the fifth stair by Mary Deane, sitting, her own dial against the wall as though in a dream state.  For a second I thought the protestors had managed to sack the place and she had been appointed sentry for the new regime. 

‘What are you doing in here?’ I asked her.

‘I’m waiting on my sister.  She’s upstairs.’

I noticed Mary was also a little shaken.  In a manner not unlike Mr Grant.  Her bloodlust appeared to have faded. 

‘Are you happy now?’ I said to her, accusingly. 

She didn’t reply and we swerved past.

 

There was the long woman herself in her blue coat standing in the centre of The Martlet offices, the higher ceiling a more suitable surrounding for her statuesque figure.  Facing Phyllis was Rita Gilgan and Sue Ellen Deane but that was the extent of the day’s invasion.  Nobody else from the mob had been brazen enough to force their way onto the premises.  Just these two young women.  As we came upon them, Rita and Phyllis were in the middle of an ancient dispute which it now seemed would remain perpetually ancient in the future (and perpetually in the middle) while our staff looked on at a loss. 

 

‘My back was turned for half a minute to look at the skin products.  Kevin wasn’t paying attention either, and when we both turned around, you had taken our spot . . .’

‘I do not believe I have ever knowingly taken someone’s place in a line in my whole life.  I would especially not want to come between a citizen and their prescription.  To be honest, I didn’t even notice you in the shop that day until you were in my face.’

 

Alison appeared beside me.

‘These two have some cheek coming in here,’ she said. 

‘Did you see what happened to Mr Grant?’ I asked her. 

‘No.  I think he got caught up in it on his way out when they were barging in.’ 

‘Your husband and his gang came at us out there,’ I said.

Her bonhomie vanished.  To presume Alison didn’t love her husband would be going too far, but a wise man might assume she was leashed from her sullen expression, simultaneously disgusted by the man’s behaviour while also showing a modicum of concern for his well-being.  I wanted to tell her about him coming at us with a screwdriver but hesitated realising it would bring no honour or reward since she already knew her man was a bastard.  She was in it, and would stay in it.

‘He had a screwdriver on him,’ I said, eventually.  (I thought I would at least let her know in case he was ever so bold as to employ such paraphernalia again.)

She didn’t say anything for a bit, then replied:  ‘He always carries a screwdriver.’

 

The shouting match between Rita and Phyllis continued with Rita going on to chastise the much older woman for being childless . . .

 

(‘I don’t need a child.  Never wanted one.’

‘So you’re just going to die all wretched and alone, is that it?’

‘I suppose so.’

‘Pathetic.’

‘You can hold it against me all you want.  And you can keep testing me.  I won’t hit you.’

‘You did before.’

‘I didn’t.’)

 

. . . until we were all deflected to a standstill by the appearance of another visitor in the offices of The Martlet.  Mary Deane had come up the stairs and she was accompanied by Mrs Gilgan, mother of Ernest, and Rita, and the source of various nightmares amongst the staff since she and her husband visited some time back; none had been more terrified than Arthur Lavery himself, who had been sitting at my desk and nervously got to his feet when he saw her.  Mrs Gilgan walked towards Phyllis and Rita.  Sue Ellen Deane stepped out of the way as she approached, as though wanting to go unnoticed by her friend’s mother.  Despite being one of the shortest adults in Earlship (probably 4’3”), Mrs Gilgan always had a formidable bearing, and since the passing of her son her reputation had grown even more fearsome.  Mrs Gilgan glanced at Phyllis and Oran Berrills but gave them no significant attention.  Her reason for being there seemed to be her rampaging offspring.  Mrs Gilgan stood right in front of Rita, who remained in a state of agitation from her bickering, and with a grave spirit, mother said to daughter: ‘You don’t fight liars by lying.  You can but you shouldn’t.  So you don’t.’

‘What are you talking about?’ wailed Rita.

Suddenly, without another word, Mrs Gilgan raised her hand and slapped her daughter across the face.  The slap was so forceful and loud that every one of us in the room flinched a little. 

Tears ran quickly from Rita’s eyes.

‘I was told this morning that you forged Ernie’s signature in the books.’

‘Just a couple,’ said Rita, sobbing.

‘I heard more than a couple.  And even one was too much.  What absolute shame have you brought to us this day.’

‘But they killed Ernie.  Everyone in this fucking place basically killed him.’

‘They weren’t very responsible in their reporting, that’s for sure,’ said Mrs Gilgan.  ‘But that’s no reason for any one of us to bring additional unpleasantness on his name.  I mean, what does it look like – us exploiting our own deceased for money.’

I saw Lavery rubbing his face.  None of us were to know how much he’d paid off the Gilgans that time.  Whatever the price, it hadn’t worked.

Mrs Gilgan grimaced.

‘This is all a bad business now.’

Mrs Gilgan turned to Lavery who was back at my desk, sitting, now with his hands crossed on his chest. 

‘We’ve no quarrel with your paper anymore,’ she said.  ‘Get on with whatever it was.  There’ll be no words from us.’

I believed there was more to her acquiescence than merely forgiveness, if indeed it was even that.  I was sure that Mrs Gilgan did not want Lavery instructing one of his reporters to write up the incident and spread it far and wide; such a story, that the family had leveraged their son’s tragic demise for their own financial gain, would haunt them forever. 

 

The room settled.  The Gilgans and the Screaming Deanes left in a considerably quieter fashion and the Berrills, when realising that people in the office were gawking at them like they were carnival freaks, followed moments later.  I was about to go after them, but before doing so, I was compelled to ask Thomas Potter about his computer which had come crashing out the window earlier.

‘Thomas, what happened to your monitor?  Who threw it out?’

He looked startled by my asking him, as though he didn’t want to be asked.

‘No, that was an accident.  I slipped and my elbow sent it out the window.  Pure accident.’

I could see in his eyes he was lying.  I didn’t know the man well, but I could make out a hint of revolution in there, a sense of misrule, and since he appeared to be the only witness to the incident, there was no way for any of us to know what happened with his monitor.  Keep an eye on those quiet ones, as they say.