Tales Of The Gurrier

Night spread an inky blackness across the grey spires of the unhappy city. The moon appeared momentarily from cover and down below briefly illuminated in the rain slicked streets a dark figure approached the warped and twisted entrance of a dilapidated tenement house.

The Bastard Kesey gazed upwards at the boarded up windows and smiled in happy reverie. ‘Heh,heh great days.’ he thought to himself and cracked his knuckles loudly. Instantly the door of the tenement cracked open an inch and a rheumy, bloodshot eye appeared.

‘Fuck off Kesey. I don’t want any trouble hear. I’m not well,’ said The Gurrier.
‘Now, now Murphy don’t be like that. It’s not my fault that you caught fire.’
‘Caught fire, caught fire! You bastard you set me on fire!’
‘Well I admit, it could have been me yes but if it hadn’t have been you it would have been somebody else. And you do hate explaining these things to the authorities,’ Kesey paused gauging his reaction then added, ‘Besides there is whiskey and celebrations to be had.’
The Gurrier looked up sharply and licked his cracked lips. ‘Hmm whiskey you say, well maybe it was my fault then. No burnings though.’
The Bastard Kesey held up his hands in mock innocence.
‘No burnings I promise’
‘Right, I’ll get my coat’
The Gurrier emerged into the night air and sniffed it apprehensively. It smelled bad, like overcooked meat. That could have been him though, he was still a little singed from the dark dealings of the previous week. As ever undertaking an evening in the company of Kesey was never and occasion to enter into lightly. However he was tired and singed and the offer of whiskey and celebrations was a welcome one.

‘So what are we celebrating then? Poisoning the Pope, political assassination, murder, genocide, regicide?’ he said.
Kesey turned to him and winked ‘You’ll see. It’s a surprise.’
The Gurrier felt ill.

And so it was that Kesey and The Gurrier ventured out that cold November night in search of whiskey and celebrations. What they found was The Gin Lady and Red Presley scaring skangers on Wexford street. As they came upon them Presley had pinned one of the terrified street gurriers up against a wall and The Gin Lady was going through his pockets.
‘No, no, no, this ones got nothing useful either’ she said turning out knives, bits of string, rusty nails, syringes and other detritus onto the ground.
‘Where’s the good stuff, I know you’ve got glue you little bollix. I can smell it off you,’ said Presley turning the terrified street goblin upside down and shaking him by the ankles.
‘Get the attack squirrels,’ she said as the urchin began to wail in panic.
‘Hee hee, they love glue’ said The Gin Lady undoing the straps of the carpet bag she carried. From within the confines of the bag a high-pitched chittering could be heard. There was the sound of tiny claws scratching in anticipation.
‘Oh Mammy, there’s no glue, there’s no glue,’ wailed the wretched creature.

‘I believe the young gentleman may be telling the truth,’ said Kesey.
‘What’s it to you? Have you got his glue?’ The Gin Lady turned, menacing them with the carpet bag.
‘No but I believe I might have gin’ said Kesey unperturbed by the mad red eyes glinting within the bag.
‘Gin you say? I like gin’ said The Gin Lady.
‘Gin, glue it’s all the same to me,’ said Presley releasing the petrified urchin ’show us it.’
‘Well said’ said Kesey ‘I have access to some of Dublin’s finest horse gin. Brewed just across the street here from horses caught fresh everyday in the fields of Ballymun.’
‘Horse gin, I’ve not tried that’ said The Gin Lady licking her lips. ‘do they allow Squirrels?’
‘I think they will make an exception for you’ said Kesey.
‘Quit flapping your lips and get me to the gin” said Presley shoving her way past them and heading across the street.

The Gurrier paused as his companions entered the purveyors of Dublin’s finest Horse Gin establishment. He looked up at the glass fronted façade and something stirred in the depths of his memory. He knew this place of old. He put his hand to his head and kneaded his brow. Something bad happened here, something wrong. The recollection flitted away from him dancing at the edge of his memory. Kesey grabbed him by the arm and propelled him past the doormen.
‘Wait, no something’s not right about this place Kesey.’
‘Don’t worry about any of that old bean’ said Kesey cheerfully slapping him on the back. ‘Just shut up and get inside.’

Inside it was worse. Fear itched at the inside of his skull. They others were all sat at the table drinking from a huge gin kettle.
‘Christ this tastes like dogsick,’ said Red Presley, ‘like dogsick that’s been flavoured with horses’
‘Delicious,’ said The Gin Lady.
The Gurrier was rubbing his head frantically now, muttering to himself
‘Not right, not right, not right. Shape’s all wrong, something in the walls here Kesey. Gin, gin, gin, horses and gin. I have to leave, got to leave, yes leave.’ He stood up suddenly and lurched towards the exit. But Kesey was blocking his way. ‘You’re not leaving so soon Murphy are you? The party is only getting started. Can’t you hear the music? Listen they’re playing your tune.’

The Gurrier could hear the music now faint and far off but getting stronger by the second. It was horrible music. Not like the industrial holocaust stuff the Bastard and Presley favoured involving pipes and hammers and broken limbs. No this was a rhythmic drumming that reverberated through his skull. It was glum and forboding like the peal of a funereal bell. Laid over the top of the doom laden drumming was the mad skittering of a fiddle being tortured to death by a consummate professional. A cold fear gripped his bowels he knew that sound, that sound no fiddle in its right mind would make, could make, but he heard it before. Only one maniac could make a sound like that, the sound of a violin being played with a hacksaw. The sound of the unique stylings of ‘Pox’ Murphy the Black Fiddler of Kilbeggan. But that could only mean one thing, wherever ‘Pox’ Murphy went the others were soon to follow. Called from across the land by his devil music. That’s what set his head thumping, that’s what the dark fear that clutched at his heart had spoken to him. That was the nameless memory buried deep in his psyche that now came screaming into view. This was it the site where it all began a decade before. No amount of glass and finished wood could disguise it. Home of the Village now but once it had been known as The Mean Fiddler. The last gathering of place of The Black Murphy’s. He looked into Kesey’s soulless eyes and the Bastard was grinning at him with his blackest, most evil grin. And when he spoke he did so with an an evil chuckle.
‘Welcome to your doom Murphy. Can you hear them, your bastard clan they’ve come for you at last. Welcome to The Gurrening’

The Gurrier screamed and leapt to his feet. ‘Get out of my way Kesey, I’ll not let them have me. The Black Murphys won’t have me. I’ve been a good Gurrier. I’ve followed all the rules. I drank whiskey, I skinned donkeys, I was mean spirited and unchristian to all. I punched babies and kicked puppies, I sold drugs to priests and pornography to nuns. I ramraided pharmacies and started ketamine riots. I shat in letterboxes and pissed in pensioners windows. I bit the heads off badgers and abused pigeons. I rode a horse through Clerys Christmas window and fired a cannonball full of bull semen into Buswells hotel. Bertie thought he was dead and shite himself in front of God and everyone. They blamed it on Pat Kenny and strung him up in the Montrose and let Harney at him with a melon and a tub of lard. I burnt down the live crib at the mansion house and got the three wise men drunk on poteen. I filled the cells in the Bridewell up with horse glue and injected cat steroids into the cast of Fair City. I’ll not let them have me! I still have a few good years left in me. Come on and we’ll rob a car and go joyriding down Grafton street like the good old days. Come on Kesey.’

The Gurrier looked desperately into the eyes of his ‘friend’ and knew he was truly doomed.
‘Ah Gurrier me auld segosha they’ve been watching you,’ said Kesey. ‘Your card is marked. Not with an army of feral minkbats could I save you now. I’m just here to deliver a message and this. With that he shot the Gurrier with his taser. The Gurrier went rigid with shock and pain as the 50,000 volts of electricity made their way through his frame. ‘Bastardsssh’ me managed before collapsing in a gently steaming heap.’

‘Jaysus you lot talk a fierce load of bollix half the time. Gettus more of the dogsick’ said Presley indicating the empty Gin Kettle.
‘Yes more Horse gin,’ demanded The Gin Lady upending the last few drops from the kettle into her carpet bag.’
‘All in good time ladies,’ said Kesey beaming at the inert figure on the floor. ‘But first the Gurrier here has an appointment to keep.’
Presley and The Gin Lady exchanged a look.
‘More gin,’ she said quietly tapping the carpet bag.
Kesey considered his options. His taser was currently out of charge, his bag of deadly things was at home hanging up under the stairs and he wasn’t sure if the voodoo cannon would be suitable for the occasion. When the Gin Lady opened the bag an inch or two and he saw the little red eyes within multiplying by the second he recognized that in this case discretion was the better part of valour, he ordered another kettle of horse gin for the table and put it on The Gurrier’s tab.

This entry was posted on Thursday, December 22nd, 2005 at 12:49 am and is filed under Stories, Tales of the Gurrier. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.