THE PROTECTORS: The Hunger & The Dance 2.1
Here so, as far as me despondent feckin’ Irish Catholic upbringing has brung me, purgatory’s pure shite, then, innit?
Sure, floatin’ as I am, here, a familiar place, settlin’ in. A memory, that’s all. God help me, this one…
Driftin’ in from the darkness, walkin’ itself around. Takin’ me arsed-up carcass with it, apparently, for better or worse, once again.
Only a millionth time, now, dead or alive. Aye, I’ve been here before. It’s not the first I’ve been knacked off in the last hundred and forty-one years, you know.
Out at pasture under an endless gray Connacht sky. Glory every direction — feckin’ hills o’ Connemara here, eh? Rollin’ green, pierced by rocks, soft and jagged all at once. Brought home, sure, but not to rest. God knows what I’ve got wrong this time…
Me dad comin’ at me fierce, sudden like. Big bearded bastard, brows drawn tight o’er his scowlin’ blue eyes. Split second to brace meself —
Strops me so feckin’ hard on me stupid head, I’m stutterin’, the scythe droppin’ from me hands. Staggered back a step, then down on me arse, reeling and staring.
Again with this shite —
“Da’,” I manage, “what’d I — ”
“Get up, Kelly.”
A tone that don’t argue. All the more sinister with him snarlin’ at me so quiet.
Well, I can’t see straight, but here’s the shape o’ the ol’ fella, at least, hulkin’ over me, now. A giant of a man, Caoimhín Mag Oireachtaigh, another Garraty for short, etched harsh against the gray sky. Meaty fists drawn at his sides…
Burly feckin’ brute, he is. Clearly I take after me mother.
And what else’m I supposed to do, exactly? Head spinning, faltering like, I get me limbs collected. Clearin’ me throat and gettin’ me bearings, makin’ my uncertain way to me feet…
Flinchin’ under the man’s glare, keepin’ me eyes on the ground — what in the bleedin’ hell have I done, now? Out in the feckin’ wilderness here, only God and a few bland sheep to wonder the same.
“Lift yer chin, boyo.”
Ahh, Christ. My jaw’s already clenchin’ as I’m bearin’ down, braced for another go. The base of me spine turnin’ to pure jelly — I’m standin’ here, ayrn’t I? And I do what he says. I lift me chin to my dad.
The second I meet his glowerin’ gaze, the ol’ fella strops me again.
Puts me on me knees like a sack of feckin’ spuds. Deaf for a spell, the green o’ Connemara a smear under me hands. Knacked pure blindered and spluttered, not an idear what he’s at me for again —
“Get up,” he growls at me, quiet about it still. The voice o’ the bleedin’ inevitable, here — instructin’ me, he is: “Keep gettin’ up, Kel.”
Right. Well. No particular infraction, maybe. A general lesson, it seems. Reekin’ o’ whiskey, the ol’ fella’s had it with his eejit son on the subject, that’s clear. Aye, it’s been like this, you know, since me dad’s been on for drinkin’ as he is…
I’ve only one eye to squint now. The other’s swoll shut, me senses gone feckin’ arseways. Every muscle in me body tremblin’, it takes me hands on the ground to get me legs under me. But I manage.
Shrinkin’ and failin’, I stand up again, in front of me dad. And he don’t have to tell me twice to come up lookin’ him in the eye this time, so.
Not another word out o’ me, neither. It won’t be til after the man’s dead n’ gone that I discover me natural proclivity for runnin’ me stupid mouth here, eh?
Watchin’ me close, the ol’ fella. Glarin’, squintin’, he’s already packin’ his big ham fist against one palm. And as soon as I’ve faced him — I’m so fucked —
Comes at me straight on, he does. Lettin’ me have it square in the chin, the way you hit a man who can match ya. Which I can’t.
Strange, gettin’ KO’ed when I’m already dead, but.
A minute later, or a few. Maybe more… I can’t say.
I’m comin’ to, at any rate, one eyelid a’flutter. Flat on me back — coughin’, totaled. Feckin’ hell. Breath knacked out, twitchin’ like a bug.
Head pure explodin’, seein’ white and black — Christ, I can’t feel me stupid face at this rate, so that’s somethin’. Seein’s the ol’ fella’s crouched over me, bringin’ me around with the back of his hand —
Once he sees I’ve a flicker of awareness, he’s growlin’ at me again.
God help me. “Get up, Kelly.”
Even a feckin’ eejit knows, there’s no way of not doin’ what that voice says to ya. No way out o’ this — no way at’all.
And well, I can’t tell you how I do it, neither. But I’m rollin’ over halfways, on me face here, somehow.
There, and I’ve a hand fumblin’ at the earth under me, I figure. Pushin’ me stupid self off the ground, findin’ me knees still hinged. Though it takes a while to get me legs workin’ after that, I do manage…
Yeah, me body gets itself upright, mostly. Balanced perilous like. Comin’ up in front of him, blinkin’ somethin’ fierce, spittin’ blood. Swayin’ and lollin’ and blastin’ air, I sort meself enough to focus me one sighted eye on the ol’ fella.
Head up and shoulders squared, he is, starin’ me down o’er his steel beard.
And God damn it, this time? I drop me chin.
My shoulders tight, me hands closin’ into fists. A terrible feckin’ impulse risin’ in the heart of a boy, my glare flickin’ up to his…
The man’s hard blue stare meets me, wrinkled deep in his sullen squint. I see the glimmer there, just for a second. Like maybe there’s hope for me yet.
He says it to me straight, don’t he?
“If yer not goin’ to hit me back, son, I’m goin’ to keep puttin’ yer arse down, y’understand.”
And tell me exactly what sort o’ bleedin’ victory can I expect if I was to have the bollocks to take a fist to me dad?
Christ, the rancid desperate hurt that’s ragin’ in a lad — it’s nothin’ to do with bein’ knacked down again, is it?
Well, I am an insolent twat here, so. Sure, I lift me chin to the ol’ fella. Give him a straight shot at me jaw, eh? All of fourteen years old at this rate.
One eye swoll shut, throwin’ me dad a smirk — I stick me damned hands in me pockets and wait for him to put me arse back down, then.
What do I get for it? Fuckin’ right I get him to look away from his son.
And oh, the wretched, scoffin’ sigh that comes out of the man. His utter despair at me sorry arse. Caoimhín Mag Oireachtaigh and his stupid, sensitive boy, this useless dolt Kelly Garraty, who looks nothin’ like him, God save ’em both…
Well, the ol’ fella, he don’t have to say another word. I see him windin’ up with all he’s got, and that’s sayin’ somethin’. Maybe I am closin’ me one good eye while I’ve a chance, so I don’t see what I’ve got comin’.
But listen, mate, the cocky shite that I’ll become? Sure, I’m leanin’ in to take the hit, now, this bastard—
Christ, I don’t even feel the ol’ fella’s blow this time, he sends me so feckin’ hard into the next realm over. Puts me bloody lights out cold, yeah. It’ll be two full days before I speak coherent.
And that left eye, it’ll never be quite the same, will it? But I learnt me lesson.
Keep gettin’ up, keep gettin’ on… what else’m I supposed to do, eh?
What you’d call feckin’ ironic, four years from now — or is it a century and a quarter ago, at this rate? Back in the year 1900, sure. Knowin’ here’s the ol’ fella, me dad, that tyrant king of a man, who’ll blow his bleedin’ head off across the bottles at Maccauley’s bar, in Dublin.
And d’ya wonder why I’ve never known what was good for me, then? Jesus, Mary, and Joseph…
Next episode…
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Jean Miller. Doing it wrong. ✌️😎 Personal handler for Two Irish Vamps on Medium. | Area code 605. 153rd Engr Bn. Sober 14+. Micah 6:8. Renegades4Life.
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