Andrew Hurley - The Loney

‘In I come, old Saint George. The champion of Ingyland. My sword was made in God’s own forge. A flash of lightning in my hand.’

There was loud cackling from the dark and the Turkish Knight stepped into the circle and drew his sword. Into the spirit of the thing now, everyone booed and hissed on cue, even David who had let go of Miss Bunce’s hand and was watching the play with a face like a child at a pantomime.

The Turkish Knight twirled the end of his long moustache and stepped closer to us.

‘I am Sullyman from Turkey Land. I seek to find Saint George the brave. I’ll take his life and his daughter’s hand. And toss his body in a cave.’

Saint George pulled Mary behind him, shielding her from the Turkish Knight. Mary cowered on her knees, the back of her hand on her brow.

‘I am George of Ingyland,’ he said. ‘My sword is sharp and keen as wind. I will fight you Sillyman. And God will judge you for your sins.’

‘Now, Saint George, I will have your life.’

‘No, sir, I will strike you dead.’

‘I’ll take your Mary for my wife.’

‘And marry her without your head?’

The two men circled each other, then leapt forward and clashed their swords. Mary screamed, and everyone began to cheer for Saint George, who at last ran the Turkish Knight through, knocking him to the ground where he lay with the sword sticking upright, clamped in his armpit. Mary rushed to the dead knight’s side and lay her head upon his chest, weeping.

‘Oh, father, you have killed my one true love.’

Saint George knelt down and put his hand on her shoulder.

‘Oh, my poor little turtle dove.’

He turned to us and pleaded, ‘Is there a doctor in this town? One that can be quickly found?’

There was a knock at the door. All faces turned to where a small figure appeared, wearing a bowler hat and a coat that trailed on the floor. Everyone was a little startled that he had slipped out unnoticed during the performance.

‘Here comes little Doctor Dog,’ he said, stopping on the way to pat the top of Hanny’s head. ‘Best doctor in the county, sir.’

‘Can you cure this knight of Turkeyshire?’ Saint George said, taking off the doctor’s hat and speaking into it.

‘Of what affliction?’ said the doctor, removing Saint George’s crown and doing likewise. ‘Tell me, sir. Confess.’

‘Of death, sir doctor, darkest death.’

‘Not for five pounds, sir,’ the doctor said.

‘For ten pounds, sir?’

‘For fifteen, sir.’

‘Twelve, sir.’

‘Yes, for twelve whole pounds and Spanish wine, it shall be done.’

The doctor felt around in the pockets of his huge coat, making Father Bernard laugh louder with each scrap of junk he turned out and dropped onto the floor — toy cars, plastic animals, golf balls, seashells. Eventually, he found a small bottle and knelt down by the dead knight.

‘Now, my sleeping Turkey knight, drink this brew of holy breath. Old Doctor Dog will cure you, sir, and call you back from blissful death.’

The dead knight began to cough and then sat upright and clasped Mary to his chest. Saint George embraced the doctor and then flung out his arms to us.

‘Rise up, rise up and sing and sing, a song of warm and merry things.’

The knight stood up, touching the wound in his side.

‘Once I was dead and now I am alive. God bless Doctor, George and wife. Bring me flesh and oranges and beer. A happy Easter to all our friends here.’

They were about to go off, when a banging sound came from the far end of the room. All their smiles dropped as they sloped away one by one, leaving Saint George who said:

‘Yet, there is one who will not sing, or dance about.’

I felt Hanny grip my hand. He had obviously remembered who was coming next.

Another player, the one who had arrived completely swathed in a black cloak, came into the circle holding a single candle at chest height so that it lit up his face. Once he was in the middle of the circle, he reached up and took down the hood. Unlike the others, his face was a post-box red and he had a pair of horns growing out of his bald head. Real buck antlers fastened by some device that was undetectable.

‘Ah, now I know this feller,’ Father Bernard whispered and nudged me gently in the shoulder.

‘In I come to say farewell. Devil Doubt shall take his bow. Come to take your souls to Hell. Where is God the Father now?’

And as he smiled and pinched out the candle I felt Hanny’s hand slip out of mine.

***

I couldn’t find him anywhere. He wasn’t in the bedroom. Nor was he out in the yard, for it had gone dark now and he wouldn’t have gone out on his own. I looked around, checking all the places Hanny liked to hide: behind the ancient upright piano, in the wide bay window on the other side of the curtains, under the tiger skin rug.

Looking in the kitchen, thinking that he might have gone searching for food, I found Parkinson talking to one of the other Pace Eggers who was at the sink stripped to the waist and scrubbing his face vigorously with a flannel. The water in the bowl had turned to ink. His robes were on the table along with his false moustache and his sword. I put the tray on the table as he patted his face dry with a towel and went to put his shirt back on. I saw that it was the elderly companion of Parkinson and Collier who we had first seen wheezing across the field the day we came to Moorings. Yet now his face was a healthy pink and he radiated the vitality of a much younger man.

‘Isn’t it wonderful?’ he said, holding me briefly by the shoulders, as he went off to join the others. ‘Wonderful,’ he said to Parkinson, who smiled and nodded and watched him go.

‘Dying from the drink, he was, Mr Hale.’

Hale. I remembered the name from the list in the envelope Hanny had brought back from Thessaly.

I turned to go, but Parkinson spoke again.

‘I didn’t think a good Catholic boy like thee would dismiss a miracle so readily.’

He walked past me and closed the kitchen door on the laughter coming from the sitting room.

‘I hear tha’s been over to Thessaly quite a bit,’ he said. ‘You and your retard.’

I looked at him.

‘Oh, I know all about your retard,’ he said. ‘Your padre’s quite a gasbag when he’s had a drink.’

‘He’s not a retard. Father wouldn’t have called him that.’

Parkinson smiled.

‘How much did he give you?’

‘Who?’

‘My friend at Thessaly.’

‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘What was it? Five, ten quid?’

‘I told you, I don’t know anything about any money.’

He looked at me.

‘Twenty,’ I said.

‘And is that going to be enough?’

‘For what?’

‘Come on, tha knows what he gave thee that money for.’

I said nothing and Parkinson shook his head and sighed.

‘I told him it wouldn’t be enough. You see, my friend at Thessaly hasn’t quite got the head for business I have. I know people much better than he does. I don’t believe people always want money. Not when there’s something more important to them. Money you can piss away like ale. What people really want is something that’s going to last.’

He put his hands in his pockets and went on.

‘I said to him there were a better way of making sure that tha didn’t misunderstand what were going on. I said to him that we ought to invite you and your retard to Thessaly, see if there’s something we can do to help.’

‘Help?’

‘Aye, make him better, I mean. Like Mr Hale.’

‘I need to go now,’ I said.

Parkinson looked at me and then opened the door. The Pace Eggers were singing again. He followed me as I went back to the sitting room.