come and Santa would come to his granny also and to tell her that. Curly looked at Mr. McSorley's big tall frame silhouetted against the shiny chrome of his car, and then into the distance, the church spire tapering up into the sky until it seemed like a long needle. His knees had turned to water.
I am afraid of that man, that man Mr. McSorley, Curly was saying to himself on the stepladder, stacking floor tiles on a shelf, when in walks Muldoon the crooked solicitor and tells him that the case is called for first Thursday in Michaelmas and to come in next day at his lunch break, so that they can get their act together. In his mind he now stood in the witness box, the judge firing questions at him, tripping him up, a barrister warning him that the case for the prosecution rested on his evidence. He saw himself being asked to stick out his tongue for the signs of a lie and he began to shake uncontrollably and the ladder underneath shook with him. He could do a runner, he could just vanish to some destinationless place, but where and how. He knew that he was being watched.
After work he went straight to Widow Nell's, not to the bar, but to the back room, where he sat at a table, by himself, lads saluting and gassing and he talking back but not knowing a single thing he said. There was a newspaper open on the table and a big article about the price of cattle-feed gone sky high and fears for the decline in agriculture. The money in his granny's shed, his fingerprints on it. He should have used rubber gloves, but he didn't. He should have refused Donie, but he didn't. I am so far in that I can't get out was what he kept saying, kept piecing the bits together—if he denied what he saw that would be perjury and he would go to jail, and if he didn't deny that he saw what he saw the McSorleys would get him. Either ways he was sunk. When Curly was a young man, there was a girl two doors down that got a toy at Christmas that could talk. It was clothed in red fur, the mouth wide open and the tongue hanging out. It had two plastic knobs for eyes and an orange fur nose, and every so often it said, "Elmo wants you to know that Elmo loves you." He was Elmo, only it was him saying it to himself —I am so far in that I can't get out. It wouldn't stop. Shelagh, the barmaid, an older woman, could see that he was upset and kept bringing him saucers of chips that were free and asking if he was sure he wanted another drink and oughtn't he be heading home for bed.
After he'd downed three pints, two large whiskies, and a Bailey's liqueur, he felt better. All of a sudden he asked himself, Why should I stay here, why should I loiter? and got up and went out, pulling up his hood.
He was not drunk but he was not sober as he got on his bicycle and pedaled and pedaled through the drizzly night. Up the high street, past the church, past the monument, and down the back road, where people jogged at all hours and were a menace. Up to the junction that forked to the main road with a sign that said d ublin, except that it was invisible, cars flying by at one hundred miles an hour. Then pedaling at breakneck speed to get to the far side, and three and a half miles along to the forestry gates. When he entered the forestry he felt safer, tarred avenue with trees on either side and the big lake still and black and glassy. Everything black, save for one little light in the turret window of the ruin of the Castle. He'd never noticed that light before, because he'd never set foot there at night. That little light belonged to his other life, before he fell into the clutches of the McSorleys and before he buried the cursed bag in his granny's shed.
When Curly didn't appear at the beep of the boss's hooter and when it was discovered that his bed wasn't slept in, it was expected he would mooch into work at some point with a cock-and-bull story. But when he was not seen and not heard of for twenty-four hours and had not kept the appointment with Muldoon, the Gardai had
I am afraid of that man, that man Mr. McSorley, Curly was saying to himself on the stepladder, stacking floor tiles on a shelf, when in walks Muldoon the crooked solicitor and tells him that the case is called for first Thursday in Michaelmas and to come in next day at his lunch break, so that they can get their act together. In his mind he now stood in the witness box, the judge firing questions at him, tripping him up, a barrister warning him that the case for the prosecution rested on his evidence. He saw himself being asked to stick out his tongue for the signs of a lie and he began to shake uncontrollably and the ladder underneath shook with him. He could do a runner, he could just vanish to some destinationless place, but where and how. He knew that he was being watched.
After work he went straight to Widow Nell's, not to the bar, but to the back room, where he sat at a table, by himself, lads saluting and gassing and he talking back but not knowing a single thing he said. There was a newspaper open on the table and a big article about the price of cattle-feed gone sky high and fears for the decline in agriculture. The money in his granny's shed, his fingerprints on it. He should have used rubber gloves, but he didn't. He should have refused Donie, but he didn't. I am so far in that I can't get out was what he kept saying, kept piecing the bits together—if he denied what he saw that would be perjury and he would go to jail, and if he didn't deny that he saw what he saw the McSorleys would get him. Either ways he was sunk. When Curly was a young man, there was a girl two doors down that got a toy at Christmas that could talk. It was clothed in red fur, the mouth wide open and the tongue hanging out. It had two plastic knobs for eyes and an orange fur nose, and every so often it said, "Elmo wants you to know that Elmo loves you." He was Elmo, only it was him saying it to himself —I am so far in that I can't get out. It wouldn't stop. Shelagh, the barmaid, an older woman, could see that he was upset and kept bringing him saucers of chips that were free and asking if he was sure he wanted another drink and oughtn't he be heading home for bed.
After he'd downed three pints, two large whiskies, and a Bailey's liqueur, he felt better. All of a sudden he asked himself, Why should I stay here, why should I loiter? and got up and went out, pulling up his hood.
He was not drunk but he was not sober as he got on his bicycle and pedaled and pedaled through the drizzly night. Up the high street, past the church, past the monument, and down the back road, where people jogged at all hours and were a menace. Up to the junction that forked to the main road with a sign that said d ublin, except that it was invisible, cars flying by at one hundred miles an hour. Then pedaling at breakneck speed to get to the far side, and three and a half miles along to the forestry gates. When he entered the forestry he felt safer, tarred avenue with trees on either side and the big lake still and black and glassy. Everything black, save for one little light in the turret window of the ruin of the Castle. He'd never noticed that light before, because he'd never set foot there at night. That little light belonged to his other life, before he fell into the clutches of the McSorleys and before he buried the cursed bag in his granny's shed.
When Curly didn't appear at the beep of the boss's hooter and when it was discovered that his bed wasn't slept in, it was expected he would mooch into work at some point with a cock-and-bull story. But when he was not seen and not heard of for twenty-four hours and had not kept the appointment with Muldoon, the Gardai had
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