Liam O'Flaherty: Irish Portraits: 14 Short Stories

“Ha!” said Brunton. “I see in yer rotten face that ye remember it. That man is dead and the curse o’ God on ye for it. Look here, Matt.”

Brunton suddenly got excited and his eyes had a fearful look in them. They got big and fixed.

“I never did another dirty job but that,” he whispered. “ ’Twas you made me do it. See? Anything else I done was for me country. I’m not sorry and I’m not ashamed of it. But I can see that man yet. I gave him one in the head an’ he lyin’ on the ground, with -”

“Shut up,” snapped Mr. Kenneally, suddenly seizing Brunton by the wrist.

“Let go me wrist,” said Brunton, again speaking calmly.

Mr. Kenneally dropped the wrist and leaned back. Brunton also leaned back. Both their bodies relaxed and they both sighed, like two men who have been suddenly startled and are recovering from their fright. They both glanced around the room and did not look at one another again for several moments. When their eyes met again they both looked afraid, as if they had looked at a spectre. But almost as soon as their eyes had met, anger took the place of fear in both their faces.

“You’re trying your hand at blackmail now,” said Mr. Kenneally.

“I don’t give a damn what I try my hand at,” said Brunton. “I’m desperate. I’m fit for nothing. My life is ruined. I don’t give a damn what I do. I know I’ll swing for this job as well as you if I make my statement. But you’ll swing with me, you b -.”

“What about your oath?” whispered Mr. Kenneally.

“Damn my oath,” said Brunton. “What about your oath? You promised to get me a job and a pension but you never lifted a hand.”

“I did my very best,” said Mr. Kenneally.

“Well, ye got to do more,” said Brunton with a hoarse laugh. “I want money or I’m marchin’ off with this. Look here. I’m not goin’ to waste time talkin’ to ye. I want five hundred quid now. Out with the money.”

“And supposing I don’t give it?” whispered Mr. Kenneally.

“The evidence is here,” murmured Brunton, tapping his breast.

“Go to the devil,” hissed Mr. Kenneally, with trembling lips.

Brunton started up and his hand went to his left breastpocket in a flash. Mr. Kenneally also darted his hand towards his breast-pocket, but Brunton’s hand came away before it reached his pocket. “God!” he said. His gun was not there, of course. Their bodies again relaxed. Brunton laughed dryly.

“Hech!” he said, half rising to his feet. He rested his palms on the corner of the table and leaned on them, half standing. He looked at Mr. Kenneally with a curious gleam of pleasure in his eyes. “What good is the money to me, anyway? Eh? What could I do with it - only drink it? What good is it to me to go on living like this? Where is my home - only in the streets and the pubs and the dosshouses, an’ you livin’ in the lap o’ luxury? Sure it’s no vengeance for me to take yer money, a few mangy pounds that won’t make a woodpecker’s hole in yer bank account. Yah! It’s not money I’ll take, but vengeance. Man, man, I’ll make ye swing with me. The two of us will swing together, Matt, and we’ll both go to hell together, for it’s not money I’ll take but vengeance.”

He stood erect and his face lit up with a mad light. Mr. Kenneally began to tremble. He fumbled in his breastpocket and he muttered: “Sit down, Mick. Sit down. Listen to me a moment.”

“No,” said Brunton. “I’m a man yet an’ you’re only a rat. Isn’t it better for me to -”

“Here, here,” cried Mr. Kenneally, spreading a chequebook on the table. “Listen. Sit down and listen.”

Brunton had stopped, seeing the cheque-book. The light faded from his face and his lips fell loose, with an expression of greed in them. His face worked, as if he were fighting this expression of greed in his lips. Then he fell on to his chair and stared at the cheque-book. Mr. Kenneally watched him closely with his under-lip protruding. Then he winked his right eye slowly and took his pen from his pocket. He rapidly wrote out a cheque, tore it off, and passed it along the table to Brunton. Brunton’s hand went out to it and seized it rapidly.

“That’s a hundred,” said Mr. Kenneally. “I’ll let you have the rest in monthly instalments. It’s no good giving you the lot together. Now hand me that paper in your pocket.”

“What for?” said Brunton.

Mr. Kenneally shrugged his shoulders.

“Supposing anything happened to you with that on your person?”

Brunton looked at him suspiciously.

“How do ye mean, if anything happened to me?” he said softly.

“Why,” said Mr. Kenneally, raising his eyebrows, “couldn’t you drop dead in the street same as anybody else, or meet with an accident or …”

“How d’ye mean … eh? … meet with an accident?” said Brunton.

“Look here,” said Mr. Kenneally with a show of anger, “hand me back that cheque. I’m not going to argue with you. A bargain is a bargain, isn’t it?”

Brunton drew the cheque closer to him and thought for a moment. Then he looked at Mr. Kenneally closely again and pursed up his lips.

“Now I warn ye,” he said, “not to try any o’ them accidents on me. I got friends yet. Ye can get me, maybe, but they’ll get you. Don’t forget that. Here. Ye can have the paper. After all… I’m not an informer, even though you’re a rat. Here. May they burn ye. Ye’ll burn anyway later on.”

He threw the envelope across the table. Mr. Kenneally grabbed it. Brunton put the cheque into his pocket. He rose to his feet.

“One a month’ll suit me all right,” he said. “Where?”

“Here,” said Mr. Kenneally in a low voice, as he stowed away the envelope.

“Well! I’m going,” said Brunton.

“Good-bye,” said Mr. Kenneally.

They stared at one another for a few moments and then Brunton moved off. Mr. Kenneally raised his glass and had another sip. When he was near the door, Brunton suddenly stopped and came back a few steps rapidly. He thrust out his clenched fist towards Mr. Kenneally and nodding his head he muttered:

“Mind what I told ye about tryin’ on any o’ them accidents.”

Mr. Kenneally rolled his whiskey around his palate and then swallowed it. Brunton turned and rushed out of the bar. Mr. Kenneally stared at the door through which he had disappeared. Then he leaned his chin on his doubled fists and stared at the table. After sitting motionless for over a minute that way, he sighed and shrugged himself.

“Have to get rid of him … somehow,” he muttered.

It was Saturday afternoon in the village of Cregg. There had been a little pig fair that morning and everybody was drinking his neighbour’s health. It was a June day and very hot. From end to end of the Main Street people were standing outside the doors of the public-houses, with pint glasses full of black cold porter clutched in their strong red hands. There was loud laughter, hearty oaths and the smacking of thirsty lips. Here and there a man was drunk and singing some ridiculous song as his wife tried to bring him home.

The only two thirsty and unhappy men in the village of Cregg were Tom Hanrahan and his friend Mick Finnigan. They had no money. Their credit was valueless because of their liquor debts. None of the farmers would treat them, since neither of them had any land and were therefore people of no account. Hanrahan was a kind of botch carpenter and Finnigan always acted as his labourer.

They leaned against the fence outside Mrs. Curran’s public-house. Hanrahan had his hands in the pockets of his ragged old dungaree overalls. He wore an old blue coat, very shiny at the elbows and with a big tear, unmended, over the right pocket. The uppers of his light unpolished shoes were level with the ground on the outside of each heel and the inside of each heel was almost as high as when it was bought. So that when he walked he had to lift his feet up high, like a Chinaman wearing slippers without heels on a cobbled street. His shoulders slouched and he had a slight hump, less by nature than because of his habit, when he cracked a joke, of bunching himself together with his mouth wide open and his elbows dug into his sides as if he were hugging himself. He was a short, thin man with little blue eyes, a sharp, long nose, a big mouth and a sallow complexion.