A Gulliver Shaking

I was hoping by the time I got downstairs the streets would be cleared of Gullivers (of both the vintage and inchoate varieties) and bystanders (be they sympathetic or not) so that a clear path home would be presented for the Berrills; this was sadly not to be.  The crowd had dwindled alright but many remained and were staring at a newly fallen individual – who was not Mr Grant; the man from Dunshaughlin was now fit on his feet but frantic with concern for a separate fallen entity: Oran, who had taken a turn and gone down upon leaving the building.  Phyllis was kneeling over him where he lay, stunned into silence; gone from her face was that routine confidence one had come to expect.  Oran’s abdomen pain had come at him again, now bringing his entire mass crumbling down to the ground.  ‘It’s my stomach,’ he wheezed when he saw me, appearing to be in considerable agony.  I saw faces in the crowd who not a few minutes ago had been pounding on the two of us.  Some seemed now contrite, whereas others just gawped without feeling, mesmerised by the twisting of fate.

I ran back up the stairs and had Alison call for an ambulance.  In the midst of this, I was compelled to recall that I too had struck Oran in the scuffle (by accident, mind) and my own blow had landed in that region of the body now ailing him.   It was distressing to think that my own wayward punch may have contributed to Oran’s disablement.  I felt like that soldier you always hear about who suddenly realises he has shot one of his own in the frenzy of conflict.  Having only just gotten past the compunction felt from revealing professional secrets and spoiling the Berrills’ year, here now I was with perhaps a hand in killing the man.  Whoever said guilt would be the end of us was right to say it, I’d venture; nevertheless, they should be ashamed of themselves whoever they are for helping that mentally suffocating concept get so far in the nation’s consciousness.

An ambulance came earlier than we expected, thank God, earlier than law enforcement anyway, who had still yet to grace us with their presence. 

As they were lifting Oran into the back of the vehicle, I became overwhelmed with the idea of his death, and what it would mean to me, and to Phyllis, and I definitely welled up in a way I hadn’t in many years.  For Phyllis, I was certain she hadn’t planned on such an event occurring, perhaps hadn’t considered it, despite their advancement in age.  I thought Phyllis might herself collapse from worry; all that repression of feeling was bound to catch up with a person. 

But Oran was still conscious as they were closing the door of the ambulance, and not in the mood for dying just yet. 

‘Phyllis will get you sorted with the paintings,’ he called out to Mr Grant in a reaching breath.  ‘I left them back in the house.’

‘Yes,’ said Mr Grant.

As the ambulance was driving off, a large rock came from the crowd and it struck the vehicle making a small dent on the bonnet.  There were gasps and a few hisses.  It was unclear if the hisses were on the side of the rock or on the side of the stricken passenger within.  The man responsible was that Gulliver I’d seen in the pub with Colreavy.  The one with the unfinished King Edward.  Even though there seemed to be a greater number of people there now who commiserated with Oran, this man had a rather shameless air about him following the transgression and stood there fearless and belligerent as the people around him bristled.  Then out of the crowd emerged Patsy from The Saltyman, a larger man in every way than this Gulliver and without any hesitation in him he strode up and grabbed him by the shoulders.  Then there was a very strange sight to be had.  Patsy began to shake this man furiously.  He didn’t strike him in any way.  No punching or slapping.  He merely shook him.  Roughly, violently.  It was unlike any shaking I had ever seen a human being endure and it caused the man’s hair to loosen and spill from his head, almost as though his hair (which was about Rory Gallagher long) had been merely resting there in ratty tufts and all it took was a good shake and there you had the man’s baldness revealed.  Some nearby stood back terrified of getting some of his hair on them, like they might catch something from it.  This man who had one of the most fearsome visages in the town looked very sad in the aftermath and I felt sorry for him.  Might he have been afflicted with a cancer and this condition transpired from his treatment?  Many theories about the happening materialised which would go on to be discussed in the town for some years afterwards, but no credible explanation ever surfaced.  One thing did arise from it though: the incident was uncanny enough to convince significant numbers to go easy on The Scouring Tout from now on since it was of sufficient daftness in conception that it could well have originated in that wicked and detested column, so how wicked was it in the end and to what degree should it have been detested?