Dancing in Limbo - Edward Toman

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in store for them. Their numbers had been swollen by a great crowd of hangers-on, the sort of character any diversion in a country district will attract. At the prospect of a bit of crack, especially at the expense of others, the lower elements of a dozen parishes were egging the pilgrims on. Some of the young lads had cut switches from the hedges, and ran up and down the column of penitents whacking at their legs and backs to mortify the flesh. Others had grown weary of this sport and trudged dourly alongside, swigging from bottles. A few older women hobbled behind the crowd, carrying picnic bags and folding chairs. Bringing up the rear, an ad hoc colour party had raised a tricolour, on the grounds that any outing could be an occasion for showing the national flag.

      Magee saw his opportunity. There was a narrow bridge on the road about a mile below the house. He directed the bandsmen into the fields on either side of the road beyond the river, ordering them to lie low till he gave the signal. His heart began to pound. Years ago himself and McCoy had employed a similar tactic at the ambush at Burntollet, when they had weighed into a crowd of students marching for civil rights. They still sang songs of that famous rout. With God’s help today would see an even bloodier victory.

      He kept to the lee of the hedgerows till he had reached the bridge and crouched below the parapet till the head of the march was nearly level with him. Then sure at last that he had not got the wrong end of the stick and was not making a ghastly mistake, he stepped into the road in front of them and held up his hand. In the other he clutched a meat cleaver. The pleas of the Donatists would fall on deaf ears no longer.

      At the sight of the Portadown men the hangers-on took to the fields, scattering their flasks and sandwiches on the road. Some of them were not quick enough for the Loyal Defenders of William; their appeals for special status went unheeded. It began to rain and the road and the river ran red with the blood of the grateful dead. For an hour they stuck to their task. This was the sort of battle that coursed through the blood of Portadown men. It was another Dolly’s Brae, another rebel rout. Then at last, the business taken care of, the sons of William shouldered their cudgels and pocketed their knives. They helped themselves to cold tea and sausage rolls which had been discarded round the killing ground. Their good spirits and sense of camaraderie restored, they set out on the road for home. They would have to keep moving, for not all the natives would be as obliging as those they had just dealt with. They would keep to the fields and ditches till they were sure they were out of hostile terrain. But once home there would be some serious drinking to be done. The whole business had given them a terrible thirst.

      Magee got to the Shambles and dismissed his companions. The square was littered with cobblestones. The door to the Martyrs Chapel gaped open. He didn’t need to be told where he’d find McCoy.

      ‘You didn’t find her then?’ shouted the preacher when he saw Magee, still bloody from the battle, in the doorway of the bar. ‘She gave you the slip!’

      ‘What the fuck is going on?’ asked Magee, ignoring the taunt. ‘Where did all this money come from?’

      ‘It’s the price of a Protestant soul!’ McCoy said, turning away.

      ‘Murphy the so-called Christian Brother paid in full for your flags,’ Billy said. ‘Sent it over with a simpleton to give to McGuffin. Rubbing salt in the wound.’

      ‘And he’s been drinking it ever since? That’s money’s that’s owed!’

      ‘Seventy-six trombones led the big parade,’ McCoy shouted, ‘but not one of them could rescue my wee girl from the clutches of the mother of all harlots.’ Magee felt the blood drain from his face. It was bad enough to be mixed up with McCoy at a time like this, but to watch him squandering the bunting money might be more than his life was worth. Magee lifted a porter bottle and broke it with one gentle blow on the edge of the counter. It brought him the attention he required. There was no need for him to raise his voice now, for the bar had fallen quiet, each drinker lapsing into uneasy anticipation of what was coming. ‘I asked what the fuck was going on?’ he repeated. The money for the bunting, what was left of it, lay like thirty pieces of silver on the counter.

      ‘You’re a bollocks! It was you who scared her away in the first place!’

      ‘Call me a bollocks one more time …’ Magee said softly.

      ‘I’ll call you a bollocks for that’s all you are. A useless, good-for-nothing bollocks. Supposed to be a hard man.’

      ‘I’ve been tramping through fucking mountains all night,’ Magee replied. ‘I get back to find you and your cronies drinking the last of my money. So I’m asking for the last time, what the fuck is going on?’

      ‘“What the fuck is going on? What the fuck is going on?” Put on another record. Isn’t it obvious what the fuck is going on? We’re washed up! Finished! Over and out!’ He turned his back on Magee and called for whiskey.

      Billy the barman didn’t move, sensing the approaching denouement. The rest of the drinkers hung on every word, every syllable. Normally they enjoyed a good saloon bar brawl, all the niceties duly observed, all the formalities adhered to. They appreciated the slow build-up, the measured tones of sweet reason, the petulant hint of outraged complaint in Magee’s persistent questioning and the way he could build on the one motif. But even as they watched developments they looked cautiously round for the best escape route for when the fur began to fly in earnest.

      ‘The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away,’ said the man of God. ‘Blessed be the name of the Lord.’ He climbed off the stool and, swaying slightly, came over to his partner and put one arm round his shoulder. Magee let it lie there. ‘A drink for my buddy, here, barman,’ ordered McCoy. ‘Mister Magee is a decent man. He’ll have a drink with me before we discuss our little business arrangement. In fact we’ll have a drink all around, Billy boy, and have one yourself, to welcome home the prodigal son from the far hills.’

      He lurched towards the bar, scattering some of the coins lying there on to the floor. No one moved. Billy quietly locked the till and pocketed the key without moving from where he stood, Magee turned to the rest of the company. ‘How long has he been like this?’ he demanded. ‘How long have youse been drinking my money?’

      They looked away uneasily. This was a turn of events they had not bargained for, typical of a Portadown man.

      ‘He’s been like this all day, Mister Magee. He’s wild upset. You’ll get no sense out of him.’ The voice from the doorway was that of Patrick Pearse McGuffin. He had crept silently into the bar during the altercation to scour the ashtrays for dogends and the glasses for dregs of stout. His appearance was more than Magee could take. ‘Get out of here you renegade! This is no place for you!’ He lifted a chair and threw it at the turncoat. McGuffin snatched up the copy of the Irish News lying incongruously on the bar, ripped out the back page with its news of Easter Week dogs running at Celtic Park, and made good his escape before the butcher’s boot connected with his backside.

      But when Magee turned again to face McCoy, the menace had gone from his voice. The presence of the turncoat in a loyalist domain had unnerved him, taken the wind from his sails. A few of the men sitting closest to the door risked an unobtrusive sip of their pints, sensing with relief tinged with disappointment that the entertainment was over.

      ‘You’re nothing but a fucking liability,’ Magee said. He dropped the broken bottle on the floor and grabbed McCoy by the lapels.

      ‘As vinegar to the teeth and as smoke to the eyes, so is a sluggard to them that send him,’ McCoy said. He located the stub of a roll-up and tried to bring a match into contact with it.

      ‘If you ever cross my path again, so help me Jesus I’ll personally brain you,’ Magee said softly. He lifted McCoy off his feet and brought him close, so close that their faces were nearly touching. Then he head-butted him, suddenly and savagely between the eyes. The crunch of bone on bone could be heard across the room. McCoy fell against the counter, the blood already spurting from his nose. Magee turned defiantly to the rest of the company, inviting by gesture anyone who wanted trouble to step forward.

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