J. Donleavy - Leila - Further in the Life and Destinies of Darcy Dancer, Gentleman

‘Hit us with axes, the fuckers. Slashed him with an axe down the face.’

Rashers, his tailcoat torn and tie tightened into a tiny knot. Throws a blanket over the flames. Stamping out the burning newspaper. And turning to loose from a clenched fist, cufflinks and pawn ticket into Darcy Dancer’s hand.

‘Here take these, my dear fellow, the whole place is being incited against us. Every one of those evil bastards whose prick is not securely plunged up something or someone, will want to bathe themselves in our Anglo Irish blood.’

Rashers tugging and pulling up the bottom of the window. Lifting up his foot and smashing out the panes. And up on his knees on the sill and disappearing out into the darkness. As one feels something stuck in one’s back.

‘This is a Schmeisser, you fucker. And I’ll blow your spine to pieces if you move.’

Darcy Dancer shoved with the barrel of a gun. Out the door. Along the corridor into another dungeon room. Gathered faces in the candlelight.

‘Here he is. He’s yours.’

Gunman pushing the long barrel of the pistol back in under his coat, hunching up his collar and disappearing. Face this crowd of baleful faces leaning against this wall. Staring at me. As this man malevolently stands with his sour breath accosting my nostrils.

‘Did you hit that man with an axe.’

‘He was hit with my fist.’

‘You hit him with an axe, or keys or something, no fist could do that damage.’

Other faces gathering ominously closer. Moving. As I move. My back closer against the wall. While the man with the gun is gone. I may only have to face gouging hands, kicking feet, kneeings and butting heads. My demise in all their eyes. Rashers to whose rescue one goes. Also gone. At least his cufflinks and pawn ticket are unsafely in my pocket. To whom does one shout for help. And have even the merest hope of being heard from this dungeon room. All I can do. Is fight. Foot and fist. At least make one the with me. Smash in this first nearest face. Kick the goolies of the smirking man behind him. Send them splattering on the ceiling. And distinctly announce my intentions.

‘If you so much as move a hair to touch me, I will part your face in two with the same fist that demolished your associate.’

A furtive sheepish grin stealing over the lips of the interrogator, uneasily shifting his weight from foot to foot. Eyes slowly believing what I’m saying. But still smiling, knowing half a dozen pair of hands stand safely behind his back. Ready to beat me to a pulp. But my fist will reach his jaw before I the. Now. Here. Within steps of her touch. As the silence shivers. The interrogator has just given some signal. And one of them now. I spy. Moving sideways along the wall. But at least this interrogator is going to go down dead in front of me. Before this chilling sound is over. The end smashed off a bottle. A voice. Firmly loud. Word by slow word announcing.

‘Anyone here who is interested to know. Better know that I’m on the side of Darcy Thormond Dancer Kildare. And that the end of this will have your jugular cut before it’s jammed deep in your face. Just any of you make one move to put a hand on him.’

The candlelight flickering. Distant sound of singing. The Old Orange Flute. And in the doorway. The broken dark green thick jagged glass of a champagne bottle held up. Glinting in the fist of Foxy Slattery. Full of courage just as his smaller brother is full of cunning. And here. An ally. Braving all this assembled brawn. Just as he did in the battles of our childhood. When he taught me how to fight the world. In the uneasy silence. His voice speaking so sure and solemn.

‘Now that that’s understood. One by one, each of you. Vacate out of here.’

Out the brick arched entrance, the figures slowly departing past Foxy. Off up the passage back into the mêlée of this bleak underground jungle. The last one, the interrogator. Stopping. Looking back.

‘We’re not finished with you yet.’

Darcy Dancer putting out his hand. To clamp it gratefully hard upon that of the Foxy Slattery as his brow furrows and he noddingly grins.

‘Foxy you saved my life.’

‘You can bet I did and all. And if it wasn’t for the man with his face pouring blood, coming out front there where I nearly had a horse and car sold, and hearing them say they were stringing up a man called Dancer who did it, named after the racehorse, I wouldn’t have bothered coming back here. But follow me, we’d be as well to wander out of this place as fast as our feet can take us. And you can be bloody sure they’d be this second gathering up a bigger gang. There’s a way by the back we can go.’

Past more dungeon rooms. Opening a door. Out into the misty night. Soft rain still falling. Darcy Dancer and Foxy clambering over broken bottles, dead rats and a dead cat. Vaulting up on the roof of a water closet. A woman inside screaming, as the toilet flushes.

‘Don’t mind the lady in distress now boss, she’d be that way anyway when she gets back inside.’

Climbing a wall, jumping down the other side into an alley. Foxy shimmying up a drainpipe. Darcy Dancer following. Past a window. And higher on to a roof. Hands scratching clawing crawling up the wet slippery slates splitting under their weight. Clambering over the ridge tiles. Knocking one loose to tumble clattering down. A voice from a window shouting.

‘Call the Guards that’s the second of them tonight from out that bloody sewer over there and breaking this place down.’

Darcy Dancer and Foxy lowering on another drainpipe to the pavement. And running along an alley and out another. To emerge on the street. And cross over to slowly walk along the banks of the canal. Its still water flowing past under the flecks of lamplight. Catching their breath.

‘Well that’s a nice little bit of exercise boss I don’t mind telling you.’

‘It was Foxy. And I can’t thank you enough.’

‘Well you just remember that I’ve not ever forgot. Your own footsteps coming once. When I was huddled cold up hid hardly with shelter saying the act of contrition thinking I was already dead from starvation when you brought me the bit of a bite to eat that saved my life. And it’s only just and fitting that I had at last the chance to save yours. I’ll be going now boss. Can I drop you anywhere. My car’s not that far.’

‘No thank you, Foxy. I’ll walk here a bit by the canal.’

‘Slán agat go fóill, boss. See you again.’

‘Goodbye Foxy. And thank you.’

The great heavy timbers of the canal locks, over which the water pours. Two gleaming white swans cruise. A dead bloated dog floats. The weeds and rushes. There goes Foxy. A moment of brief kindness given once, repaid this day with my life itself. Walk now under this lamp light. Take out Rashers’ cufflinks and the pawn ticket to redeem my own silverware. Stare at them in my hand. And wouldn’t you believe it. A bloody punched tram ticket to Dalkey. And as for priceless cufflinks. These trinkets, aside from being most awfully garish, are clearly nothing but imitation jewelry.

Darcy Dancer walking the path along the canal. Houses the other side with big gardens up to their entrance doors. A light on in a window. Only sign of life. Man standing in dressing gown in the middle of the room looking at a book held open in his hand. And out here. Wet. Cold. Bereft. My trousers torn. Shoes scuffed. One hears Sexton’s voice. Telling of when he was a little boy, often without a shoe. Up at two in the morning to drive his dead father’s cattle ten miles over the hilly winding roads to the market in the town. Arriving at dawn, waiting soaked and chilled by his scrawny hungry bullocks for a buyer. And sometimes no one would even look at him, never mind the cattle. And then drive the beasts home again unsold. Many a sad time that happened Master Darcy, many a sad time. It would drain your heart of blood, but it would never stop you doing it again.