This one is a little unusual. Although it features a dominatrix and much strictly adult humour, it's not purely erotic. In fact, it's the funniest book I've read for a very long time, and well worth sharing some of it with you. As you'll see from the first chapter below, it's written in an unusual style - very Irish, which, of course, it is...
"Dark Drink and Conversation"
Mulligans is the sort of pub you’d keep a secret. Warm and snug, the soft light embracing dark brown wood, and a pint of Guinness that’s only Nectar of the Gods. In a hectic world of pace and change, it remains sober, steadfast and demure.
“Holy Christ,” he says with feeling, as the Barman places a frothy pint within his grasp.
I drag my eyes from the racing page. I am in the presence of a fellow sufferer, a fellow traveller on the road of life. I know him well in ordinary life. However, the fact that he is dressed in full police uniform with the rank of Garda Sergeant has not escaped me.
He pushes his cap back to reveal a low forehead over a dark shock of greying hair. His heavy-boned, weather beaten face has the long enduring lived-in look of a man who has seen life, red of tooth and claw, in the raw, in all its wonderful variations.
“Soft day,” I offer, to acknowledge that his remark has not fallen on the empty air.
He downs a third of his pint in a swallow and nods to the Barman to set up another. Then he eyes me, having taken my remark on board.
“Soft is it?” he asks, and I sense his pain. “There’s some’d say it’s a shite day.”
He elaborates, “A day where nature conspires with chaos to produce confusion.”
“Nature?” I ask, trying to catch his drift.
“Dark, dull, drizzle that’s trying to be rain, everywhere gloomy, a day that brings the depressives to the fore,” he explains.
I pick him up wrong, “sorry for your trouble,” I say, thinking he is suffering from depression.
He looks at me as if it has begun to dawn on him that nature is not finished with him yet, this day of days, and, ignoring the fact that we have a long acquaintance, he conveys by his look a sense of wonder that perhaps nature has conspired to throw him together with a fool.
And Mulligans is the only sanctuary he knows. He looks about but there is no escape; we are alone in the Snug. He finishes his pint and then considers deeply the bottom of the glass.
“You don’t have the look of a man who gets depressed,” I throw out, sensing my attempt to be comforting has driven him deeper into the abyss.
Our eyes meet and he realizes I am sensitive to his pain. He relaxes and reaches for his second pint. “Get you one?” he asks indicating my three-quarters empty glass.
“Don’t mind if I do.”
We skirt about it for a couple of pints. I update him on the state of the racing page and we share a joke or two over the recent performance of the Dublin Gaelic football team. In discussion, it becomes clear to me that years of residence in this city have not dulled the Sergeant’s allegiance to his home county of Cork. We shift the conversation to safer ground, dealing with Manchester United, Chelsea and Arsenal, and the general state of play in the English Premiership League.
Then he can stand it no more. “What a bloody day,” he lets out with a deep sigh.
“Early days yet,” I offer in recognition that it is still too early for teatime.
“Early shift,” he explains, “six o’clock start, two o’clock finish.”
That explains the drink. However, he is still in his Garda uniform and this is a measure of his desperation. Admittedly, he is in the private sanctuary of the Snug in Mulligans, but he is not wont to drink in uniform, being a stickler for maintaining standards and, in fairness, not wanting to frighten other customers who might not know him. Indeed, I conclude he must have had a shite day.
“The Howlette girl threw herself into the canal up at the lock,” he adds.
“Howlettes from the flats?” I enquire to get a better fix, for if this is so, then it’s an attractive red haired girl.
“You remember her?” he asks and I nod.
“Didn’t I teach her for six years. About twenty years old; not over bright, but a solid sort of a girl.”
“Yeh got her in one.”
“Is she dead?”
“Yeh know young Fitzer, the pervert from Mocol Street?” he asks, and I defer to his right not to reply to my question, not at least until the relatives are told.
I say, “who doesn’t?” wondering how Fitzer had added to his troubles.
“Well, as life would have it,” he explains, “said Fitzer was up at the lock, trying to do a bit of flashing in his raincoat. Some of the schoolgirls take a short cut that way.”
“Don’t I know it,” I say. “We’re always telling them it’s not safe up there, but they meet boys along the canal.”
“You’ve been known to take your own mot up there!” The Sergeant scores a point.
“In the evening,” I hasten to explain, “just courting. Haven’t been there in ages. Last time we were there she said the quacking ducks would give her a headache.”
“Cured yeh, I bet,” he says with a laugh.
“Not at all,” I say. “We prefer to go to the pictures. Mind you, she likes the walk up there on a Sunday evening.”
The Sergeant sups his pint and I realize I am rambling. I pay attention so he can continue.
“Fitzer sees this girl coming alone down the path. Prime target. He gets his buttons undone and stands there bollock naked to the world. This girl walks past.”
“How do yeh know all this?” I ask.
“Bugger confessed. He was in a state; blurted it all out after I gave him a knuckle sandwich. Then I interviewed other parties to fill the gaps.”
“Carry on,” I say, understanding that his source is, as it were, from the horse’s mouth.
“The girl casts a glance. “Big for a monkey” she says and walks past.
“Bitch!” Fitzer shouts. He’s set out to impress and does not take kindly to her disparaging remark. “May your tits fall off and may the devil take yeh.”
“Fair enough,” she says and jumps into the canal inside the lock.”
“Into the lock?”
I’m horrified, for the lock is deep and would be hard to get out of at the best of times. In this cold weather, a trap that only a brass monkey would endure.
“Into the lock,” he confirms. “It’s the Howlette girl and she’s up to commit suicide. At the point they meet, the Fitzer incident is for her a minor distraction. Her mind is set and there’s no turning her. Into the lock she goes.”
“Jasus,” I say by way of helping the conversation along.
The Sergeant’s face creases into a tired smile as he continues, “Fitzer of course, is one of these types who thinks the world is all about themselves, and he thinks his remarks have led the girl to throw herself off into the lock.”
“Jasus,” I say and nod to the Barman for a further two pints.
He’s ear wigging but goes to it, still listening.
“Fitzer goes mental. He throws off his raincoat, cap and Wellington boots and dives buck naked into the lock,” the Sergeant continues.
“To save the girl,” I say admiringly.
“On the way down, Fitzer remembers he can’t swim and just before he hits the water he starts to shout for help. He hits the water and now two of them are drowning in the lock.”
“Jasus,” I say and pass a tenner as the Barman arrives with the perfect pint by two.
He holds back on the change, and gives it to me later, at this point trying to minimize his interruption of the Sergeant’s story.
“Two deaths then?” I attempt to summarize.
“Fitzer is not resigned to his fate and the water is freezing his balls off. He’s in a panic,” the Sergeant contradicts.
Obviously the story did not end there.
“And the girl?” I ask.
“Dignity personified. Hands folded on the chest, treading water, preparing, getting ready to pass off this mortal coil and end her troubles.”
“Jasus,” I say.
“But Fitzer is making a holy show of himself roaring and crying, and of course there is no one except himself and the Howlette girl.”
“What happens?” I prompt.
“Eventually she says, ‘feck this for a game of soldiers,’ and swims over and hits Fitzer a box when he comes up for air. Fitzer grabs hold of her and shouts, “we’ll drown together.”
“I’d not be seen dead with the likes of you,” she replies and hits him another box. Then she gives up. ‘Feck this’ she says and drags Fitzer over to the gate of the lock. She takes her scarf off. She was well dressed given the state of the weather, and had a long scarf. This she ties to Fitzer and secures him to the gate of the lock.”
“And gets back to suicide?” I ask.
“No,” the Sergeant smiles. “The moment was past. Once she got annoyed she was alive again, no way she’d be able to commit suicide with her change of mood.”
“Makes sense,” I agree.
“And there was no way she was sure Fitzer would be rescued. Last thing she could stand was to be found dead in the same lock as your man.”
“I can understand that, and him without a stitch on him,” I agree again.
“So nothing for it. She has to rescue Fitzer. In time she manages this, and they end up bedraggled on the bank.”
“Get dressed,” she says to Fitzer when he comes round, explaining, “I’ll not be seen dead or alive up here with a frizzled up naked man. My good name would be wrecked, especially if it was the likes of you.”
The Sergeant savours his pint as he continues the tale.
“Fitzer gets up and puts on his cap, wellies and raincoat. “Goodbye,” she says, turning back to the lock, settling her mind and intending to start again.
“I’ll jump and get yeh,” Fitzer promises.”
“Good thinking,” I say.
Fitzer may not be able to deal with women in the normal way of things, but he had got her there.
“What happens next?” I enquire.
The Sergeant smiles. The telling of the story has relaxed him, although the pints may also have helped in that department.
“About this time,” he continues, “a schoolgirl is on her way home with her friend along the canal and they’ve reported a man and a woman lying on the bank, I expect having spotted them when they came out. The schoolgirl gets on her mobile phone and is a bit agitated. The reception is not the best but she says he’s naked and she thinks they are kissing, but I established later that Howlette was giving Fitzer mouth to mouth resuscitation.”
“Jasus,” I say, shivering at the thought, for hadn’t the girl been through enough.
“With yeh there,” the Sergeant agrees, understanding my shiver.
“How did you come on the scene?” the Barman asks, tentative like, not wanting to intrude on our conversation but his curiosity is roused.
The Sergeant is expansive and explains.
“I arrives on foot of the call from the schoolgirl’s mobile. The schoolgirls have legged it and Fitzer and Howlette are sitting on the arm of the lock gate, shivering but in good order, doing nothing that is arrestable. Fitzer is in the raincoat and as far as I can see, flashing nothing.”
“So?” I ask.
“So I arrests them for a breach of the peace, on suspicion, and the rest is history,” the Sergeant concludes with a flourish.
“Where are they now?” I persist.
The Sergeant cuts across my question. “One thing I’ll tell yeh. Fitzer is cured. He’ll never flash again, or so he swears. Says Howlette jumping off the lock put the heart across him, and if a flash did that he’s withdrawn from the field.”
“Good for him,” I say approvingly.
“To top it off,” the Sergeant adds. “I took him up to Strimmers. One of the ladies of the night owes me a favour. I told her to finish young Fitzer off properly and make a man of him. She’ll do the job.”
“Good thinking,” I say, thinking that might not be a cure but that the Sergeant is a practical man under the gruff exterior.
“But what about the girl? Is she all right?” I ask.
“Outside,” the Sergeant says indicating by way of a nod of his head, to the door of the Snug that leads to the public bar.
“The damp lady in the corner drinking balls of malt?” the Barman confirms.
I remember he has been feeding drinks down the other side of the bar as normal. Although it’s a wet day, there are a few in the bar. He must have seen the Sergeant bring her in earlier and had maintained his usual discrete silence.
“Dropped her there,” the Sergeant says, “on me way in. Told her not to shift her ass until her mother came and got her. Her mother’s working as a cleaner over in the paper factory. I’ve sent a message.”
“They’re not off for another hour,” I say. I’m remembering the good ordinary school kid she was only a few years past, and wondering how she’s feeling, just having nearly killed herself.
“She’ll be well pissed by then,” the Barman adds. “The rate she’s going at the balls of malt.”
I shift myself and stand up. “She was one of my pupils,” I say. “I’d better go talk to her.”
“Right so,” the Sergeant says agreeably, and the Barman lifts the latch so I can exit the small Snug.
“A word in your ear...” the Barman whispers as I pass through.
I lift an eyebrow in inquiry.
“The young lady in question was dating O’Toole. You know O’Toole?”
“The Builder?” I say. “Middle aged, married with six kids?”
“The very same,” he confirms. “They’ve had a row. Between you, the gatepost and me, he might have got her up the spout.”
“Pregnant?” I whisper, but the Barman says no more. He has gone as far as he can go.
Behind his bar, he sees all the comings and goings, but he has Professional Ethics and already he has stepped over the line.
Taking care not to slip on the puddle at her feet, I sit down beside her. She recognizes me, and as our eyes meet she lets go, weeping the tears of the lost.
“There, there,” I say holding her hands, and she looks at me with the eyes of one who has been hauled back from the grave.
The Barman brings a pint and a ball of malt. Thoughtfully he is also balancing the mop for a quick, discrete mop up.
She senses the empathy behind my discomfort, that I want to help but don’t know how or what to say. I smile and she manages a little one. When she squeezes my hand, I know she is going to be all right.
"Dark Drink and Conversation"
