The Boy from the County Hell Read online

CHAPTER SEVEN

  “Who are ya?” shouted Shane.

  “Shut up and watch the road. Left” he screamed. “And watch out for the….”

  The tiny three wheeled car dodged and weaved and the metal hinges grazed against the ground showering sparks behind them like the vapour trail of a comet’s tail.

  “Jaysus was dat was a tink it was?”

  “Yeah. Feckin tour groups. Even in da height o London Burnin, some fuckin edjit yank or half Australian, half Irish, half Brazilian” he said, looking up at the author, “wants to skip along wit deir bollocksing cameras. Dere’s a lot o shootin goin on round dis place. Royal guards gone fuckin nuts, shootin everyone on site. Ya can’t miss em dough in dose stupid hats. Like watchin, a whole bunch of fedder dusters runnin about wit serious arms. It’s serious and all, but still looks fuckin funny.”

  Shane kept his hands gripped to the wheel. All around him, the London he once knew was like he had always imagined it being but never thought that it ever would. There was something majestic and homely about a raging inferno.

  The city and the night glowed in a way that he had never seen. Beautiful oranges, bright mesmerizing yellows and scorching reds all shimmied and swirled about the night and the tips of each flame would stretch out and lick the corners of folded newspapers swept up by the cyclonic winds and each flame would birth a thousand more and there was nothing violent about the dance of colour or the crackle of the night sky for there was none so violent as the savage unleashed in the back of the car, barking his command into Shane’s ear; lefts and rights and gos and stops and look out for that itty bitty kitty and hit that crippled cunt, go on and mow em down and Shane focused, his sickness waned and sweated from his burning pores as necessity called his drunken mind into formulated action and he swerved this way and that and he dodged the itty bitty kitty and he mowed down the crippled old man, not because he was drunk on disorder but because the crippled old man was only such because his legs were trapped under a burning beam that had made a cripple of him and in the second of their insight, there could have been nothing kinder for them to do.

  “Where we goin?” asked Shane.

  “Up ahead. Not far now. Everyting’s fucked ere man. Me base, me team, da fuckin city. Dis is da last fuckin stand, for da world, here in London and it’s all gone ta shite.”

  “Dis is all because o dat bomb? Who did it? Da Garda, da police, MI-5 and dat, dey’re all sayin IRA. Is it troo?” yelled Shane, swerving around every obstacle strewn about the road; bunkered bodies piled one upon the other, burning tyres and burnt out Beatle shells left and right.

  “Beatlemania. Dey were da first, fuckin fell apart.”

  “Beatlemania? Like screaming girls and shite?”

  “A day ago, a message spread across the land, from London out unto da faraway towns. Dey declared war.”

  “Da terrorist?”

  “No, dis was after. It was someone else, but dey came from all over the country in deir Bealtes, rattling inta town, chanting and cursin and sayin, all dey needed was love. Dere were fuckin hundreds o tousands of dem, like flowered fuckin rats scourin troo da city, treatening to hug each and every feckin one; da plod, da tugs, da grannies and even da junkies.”

  “What happened?”

  “Dey went, mental man. Dey got ta da bomb yeah, but dey couldn’t disarm it. Dey tried every Beatle song on Eart, but nutin happened, just kept tickin away. Dat’s when everyting went haywire. Hippies went nuts, started shootin each udder and den targetin everyone dey’re supposed to be fuckin savin.”

  “But why da Beatles?”

  “No idea man. Yer man, Ringo, he denied all links wit em. He fecked off real quick wit a talkin train. MI-5 caught up wit the train around Wales. Dey tortured da poor fucker. He said nutin at first. He was a tough cunt but dose coppers, dey rusted his nuts and he squealed. Said yer man Ringo had fecked off for good in his little yellow sub.”

  “Yer fuckin me? A yellow submarine?”

  “Gets worse. Yer man Ringo, was an alien, not human at all man. Da only one who knew was dat shuntin train, Thomas.”

  “Knew what?”

  “Atlantis man, it’s fuckin real. And yer man Ringo, he was like a fish man or an alien fish man or sumtin but he tried to warn us about all dis for years. Wasn’t till John, Paul and George were so fuckin high dey let him write an album and he warned us. He tried ta invite us, but we didn’t listen. We ignored him. And den, dey all started dying, all of dem. Dere was Hendrix, Joplin, fuckin John man and den George.”

  “Dat was all Ringo, killed em all?”

  “Are ya fuckin mad? Ringo? No, not him but around him dere was a madman planning all o dis. But Ringo he tried ta tell us about Atlantis, ta hint at da reality dat when we were high, maybe we could have seen what ta him was normal; ya know, for a fish man, or an alien fish man or sumtin. A place, under da sea.”

  “Da octopus’ garden?”

  “In da shade man.”

  “Well clip my balls and call me Bono. Fuck me. And is dere any chance, anymore? Ta get dere?” asked Shane, steering wildly, but in his mind, the world moving and burning about him in terrific slow motion for a great truth was now slapping him still.

  “Yer man Thomas; da tank engine, he told MI-5 dat yer man Ringo, he had space aboard his yellow submarine for da entire population of eart. It was like da tardis or sumtin.”

  “What happened?”

  “Punk happened man and den Celine Dion and well, now, you now da shite we’re in.”

  “What about Paul, where is he in all dis? Wit dis Beatlemania and shite and Ringo and all dat.”

  “Nobody’s seen him, man.”

  “Weird. Him and Bono, usually like cats ya know. Lyin around, doin fuck all, soaking up the limelight.”

  “Man, Bono and Paul, dey’re nowhere ta be seen. Da focus is all on Ringo.”

  “Ringo fuckin Star.”

  “Ringo fuckin Star is right man. We didn’t see it. Nobody did nobody took em seriously. He was a fuckin genius, a spiritual Adonis, didn’t overdo it like da udders did; he was real subtle like a fuckin god amongst men. Ya know it was all in da name too. Dat’s what yer man Tomas said before he died.”

  “What did he mean?”

  “No one knows. Mi-5, dey took his name like an anagram or sumtin den started jumbling da letters round. Dat’s when dey came pointin dey’re fingers at me.”

  “Yer Savage yeah? IRA?”

  “Yeah man.”

  “But what did the words spell?”

  “Dey jumbled da letters and got da words Roast Ring which they tought meant da bomb and London on fire, da centre o da world ya know; da ring o fire, da roast ring. Den dey got de word Oar String. Made no sense at first but when dey looked at da bomb, dey realized dey needed a song and da lyrics and tune and chord o maybe some song about boats. Dey sang everyting; from yer man Ringo’s songs about yellow submarines to even Enya, hummin sail away, sail away, sail away. But nutin. Dey don’t know what it means. Physicists were called in and dey’re breaking up da fabric of old Ringo songs, tryin to find what dey call da danicin string at the entre of everyting. Den dey found da words Sing Taror. Made no sense too but dey taught maybe he meant da Torah or sumtin like dat so dey got all dese Ortodox lads and started singin da Torah in da key of yellow submarine. Fuckin nutin. Den dey found two words dat pointed ta me. IRA Strong. We had MI-5, FBI, fuckin Spice Girls, everyone all bangin down our doors. Dey took down all me men, Shot em and dey’re families.”

  “Is dis IRA?”

  “I might be a fuckin lunatic, but I’m not an idiot. Blow up da world? How da fuck am I gonna watch football? Jaysus. Want a fuckin republic sure, but not at da cost o football, Jaysus no. A free Ireland man, and Celtics shiting all over Rangers. No, dis bomb aint ours. Dis Musical Madman dey call em. Nobody knows who da fuck he is. Honestly, hadn’t heard from you in a few years. No songs, no trouble, no nutin. To be honest, we taught it might ave been you. Where da fuck you been?”

  “Sober.” br />
  “Ah fuck man, I’m sorry ta hear dat, dat’s not fair man. Jaysus, are you ok? Is dere anyting I can do?”

  “Ya couldn’t lend me a tenner could ya? I’ll buy ya a drink” said Shane.

  “Ya don’t need money man. All da pubs are in ruin man. I got what you need here. A fuckin arsenal.”

  “Fuckin hate dose cunts. United we fuckin stand man.”

  “Bad choice o words. Arse and all, fuck dat man. I got drugs and booze, all types.”

  Savage reached into a bag seated beside him and pulled out sheets of papers and pills and bags of assorted brown powders and white powders and yellow powders and pipes and needles and spoons and lighters and bottles of this and bottles of that and he threw them all forwards onto the front passenger seat.

  “Are you ready to save da world?”