J. Donleavy - A Singular Man

"Any letters."

"One registered I signed for. Two threats. And one bill."

"What's the bill."

"Mr. Brandy, funeral director, embalmer-"

"What is it."

"Don't shout. I'm just telling you. What it says here, for the afternoon and evening hire and misuse and additional damages of one hearse."

"O.K. enough, what's the registered one."

Miss Martin with her little efficient opener. Pulling out the paper. From here I can see a black letter head. Miss Martin silently reading.

"What is it, Miss Martin."

"I think you better read this yourself Mr. Smith. Mailman said they've been trying to deliver this for days in Golf Street."

Smith with a thumping heart. Holding the stiff unrelenting paper in such small delicate hands.

Sun Shine & Son

Bicuspid House

Paradise Square

Of This Instrumental.

Mr. George Smith

3 3 Golf Street

And new of Room 604

Dynamo House

Dear Sir,

On a Wednesday of the ipth ultimo, at 3.34 P.M. (approx.) o'clock at Battery Station of the Rapid Transit system of this city you made an unprovoked and savage attack upon our client, Mr. Harry Halitoid which resulted in a knockment into the tracks of the said system where there was a sustainment of considerable head and body injury.

Therefore and in view of the heretofore we furthermore establish that our client who is positioned as a master Boiler Watcher at a prominent hospital where many wealthy people have been treated has been unable to preside at work for two weeks, during which the hospital steam has been making unfamiliar pounding noises in the pipes upsetting the inmates and our client himself has been under the care of doctors and night nurses, one of whom is a specialist in soft foods. The upper incisors as well as one canine and one bicuspid are missing from our client's jaw, obliging him to eat slops. Although two teeth were recovered which were knocked from said mandible our client has suffered much mental cruelty and disspirit when he has attempted to smile while having to tour important personages around the boilers.

By way of damages we are asking a sum to offset the physical and mental distress endured by our client as well as making good the suit of clothes which suffered spoilment in the tracks, plus a further stipulated monthly payment as our client is now forced to go through the rest of his life with an unfriendly outlook.

Failing to reach a satisfactory agreement with you regarding restitution and arrangements we advise you that we have been instructed by our client, who has desisted to press charges, to take immediate steps.

Yours truly (very)

Sun Shine & Son.

Smith leaning against the doorjamb. Brood over all die many folk who have skidded on the snake oil. Strange how when passing by the sign across the hall of The Institution Of Higher Graduation, one wanted to crash through the door and land inside begging on one's knees for a scroll.

Smith disappearing into the back room. Returning four minutes later with a paper. Putting it before Miss Martin.

Ward 17

Blockhouse II

Island of the

Criminal Lunatic

Day-light Saving Time

Sun Shine & Son

Bicuspid House

Paradise Square.

Dear Sirs,

I am indifferent to the ultimo. But while here at the institution I have made many good friends, some of whom are often discharged as cured. Upon requiring further communication from me, one of these absolutely cured formerly violent lunatic criminals will deliver my further reprisals by hand.

Yours sincerely,

I. Belt (Warder)

Dictated by George Smith and

signed in his absence.P.S. While dictating, a roving committee of armed warders on a show of hands have elected to discharge me as cured, further reoccurring lapses to be dealt with at an out clinic.P.P.S. Respectfully hoping you are not a cavity in the tooth where you live.

Miss Martin standing. Trembling with Smith's letter in her hand. Her mouth opening, then closing.

'What's the matter, Miss Martin."

One hand reaching across her brow, Miss Martin slowly back stepped to the shiny horse hair sofa. Sitting bent forward on the edge, hand now dropping across her eyes. Smith in waistcoat, sleeves rolled up. Lifting the left foot on top of the right. Ruin a good shine. Feel stark naked with my battle ribbons and medals pinned to my skin.

Everything is the matter/1

"Is it the letter."

Miss Martin shaking her head. Hair swinging out from her ears. Which I felt and kissed and whispered round. These last weeks such a strain. As she comes late to work. In the back room I lurk desperately to find something for her to do. She's changed since the night of Pomfret Manor. Looking so matronly sitting there on the horsehair.

"Can I get you a pill, Miss Martin, Goodness."

Smith rushing forward as Miss Martin gently keeled over on her side and lay breathing heavily, slightly snorting through the nose. Some terrible instinct comes and you want to jump right on top of her. That in her sorrow and sadness one might take her from behind. Her breasts have got so big. Milk ice cold from a cow. Go through the rest of my life now by mute card or beep. Miss Tomson, who could walk across the town in two tall strides. Tonight I'll go haunting terminals, and lobbies for you. One swat on one jaw on a station platform. And a hook goes fishing in my assets.

Miss Martin's eyes closed. Her breathing heavy. Smith lifting her legs and tucking them in on the sofa. Turning back to his room and standing in front of a round mirror. Lathered on a cloud of shaving cream. Unfold this long razor, and lay it against the flesh. Trip down all these mighty little hairs. High up out of the air shaft planes fly over, buzzing and rattling the window panes.

A dog's bark out in the corridor of Dynamo House. Smith stiffening in the back room of 604. Wiping face with the pink towel, pulling down pink shirt and buttoning cuffs. Throwing arms into jacket and straightening tie. Past Miss Martin still snoring on the couch. Peeking out the door and down the hall. Edging slowly back in again. Out there a man and a brown crippled dog. Who lays down every few feet to rest, panting. And the man leaning over to pat its head kindly while he looked at the numbers of the doors. The aristocratic back, carriage, hair and dishevelled clothes. Bonniface. Sporting brown attire. Just slip by now and down the opposite stairs. Leave Miss Martin to his mercy. You wretch, Smith. Remember. Clementine, burier of Miss Tomson's dog. In the pet cemetery not far from The Goose Goes Inn. Bonniface reserves nobility while the rest of us have none.

Smith escaping down the side stairs. Across the lobby of Dynamo House and out the wagging doors into a sunny friendly street. Treasury clock bell tolls noon. Raise a hand to shout for a taxi. And another hand comes down to rest gently on a shoulder. And turn to face a warm sad smile.

"Smith. Ah Smith. What about some beer and onions. You think I vault the statues of public peace, safety and justice and land in that little area they call amnesty. You think that. This is my faithful friend here. He is a dog. He is old and tired now, walks only few steps at a time. Then he must lie down and rest till the energy comes back. But I am his friend too, I wait, we both go forward together. Make each other's life worth while. He nice dog. He called Mr. Mystery. Nice name. Ah George you go so grey. You worry too much."

"How do you do, Bonniface."

"Come George. Flag this taxi here. Come. Pick up Mr. Mystery. Mr. Mystery, do not growl at George, he had to be mean to make money. But meanness, niceness, it's all the same. Often nice to be mean and mean to be nice. My God George I'm going absolutely demented in this town. I do not know what you do but many rumours fly about you. Mr. Jiffy said you were cunning, astute. You escaped with the most beautiful woman. Abandoned your comely secretary. Left me in the ice house."