by misadventure

I guessed perhaps Lavery was shagging Ida Roche on the sly.  Lucy agreed with me.  We often gossiped about it.  Swapped stories about hearing them going at it out the back in the alley, up against the wall, or against the old Xerox in his office, or over his desk, papers flying everywhere, every horny workspace cliché you could think of we thought of.  But deep down we both knew Lavery and Ida probably weren’t having it off on the regular.  Ida was too prim and proper for such conduct.  Neither of us would put it past Lavery though.  It was pathetic – I knew it – but I was glad of the opportunity to go over these things with Lucy, the danger in discussing someone else’s infidelity was a sort of consolation for my lonesomeness and fed well the dangerous fantasies I had about her.  Stealing those moments was a challenge though.  Crumallys lounge was where it usually happened.  But only on the rare occasion she came in with us, when she had no outstanding spousal commitments.  And only when I had her to myself, preferably on the lower stools abutting the shared table, with our backs turned to the rest of them, and with relatively loud pop music playing to muffle our more lurid statements, only then were we in place for the chinwag.

You think him and Ida’ll have a go tonight, do you? I asked her, smirking.

Oh, of course, she chuckled.  He’ll need all the emotional support he can get after the day he’s had. 

Too right.  He’ll want his cockles warmed after having them freeze dried like that. 

I’m sure Ida will be there for him.  A friend in need, you know.

Is a friend with seed.

Oh, come on, stop it.

I will not.  To be frank, I don’t believe Ida’s piece of whoopee will matter in the long run, not with those Gilgans after him.  They had me fearing them and all.

One thing you could say about the staff of The Martlet was that nothing could stop us from going to the pub after work, not even the intense resentment many of us had for one another; only it required some caution on my own part, for I was a pathetically sized man and this made alcohol consumption an unpredictable and generally uncomfortable venture.  I was only able for it with Oran and Phyllis because the stuff they served (the wine, the gin, the Horlicks) I never really imbibed in great quantity, and when I stayed around to watch a flick with them, it was normally tea I took.  The high I got round there was more from the strange pungency in the air of old paper and plastics than any measure of alcohol they provided. 

The day the Gilgans came in to see us at the Martlet with the purpose of delivering their ultimatum to Lavery, there was no question from any of us that we would be calling in to Crumallys for a few pints once five o’clock turned.  The grieving wife and husband didn’t last long in the office that day.  No sooner had they dropped in to put the thousand shits up Lavery than they’d departed.  They weren’t after names like that mob of do-gooders out there.  All they asked was compensation for the loss of their dear Ernest, a monetary agreement, otherwise they would bring the affair to court.  The look on Lavery’s face when they raised the legal matter was priceless.  In all probability, they didn’t think they could successfully bring a case against him, or the paper.  Although not an impoverished clan, neither were they anywhere near Lavery’s level on the old ladder.  A typical middle class family from over the big hill, where all the doctors and teachers were known to reside, the Gilgans were well-to-do, had worked and scrimped their way into the gentler classes – Mr Gilgan the owner of a quite profitable taxi company and Mrs Gilgan a nurse of some prominence in the hospital – but were they royalty in town?  Not at all.  It was my feeling, and Lucy’s, that the Gilgans probably feared Lavery’s connections within higher society, that it was likely he was in with some lawmakers who could scupper the whole thing, that he had a barrister friend he could contact, or worse, a judge on his side who could allow some shady manoeuvres to take place and make all their efforts futile.  This way was better, this way they could scare him away from the publicity. 

I think you’re right, I told Lucy when she suggested this.

I wouldn’t blame them, she said.  If I was in their shoes, I’d think the very same.

They usually gave us the eyeball in Crumallys, dirty incredulous looks; we weren’t really like them, us from the newspaper, and to be fair, I sort of got a kick out of acknowledging that.  It was the only time in my life I felt beyond the town’s confines, all of a sudden one of the hated elite.  There was a strange mix of antipathy and wonder in the way they looked at us.  Sometimes it felt we were in their eyes trainee astronauts about to go on the Jupiter mission and it was our last night on the town before blasting off.  They just had no idea what we were going through and it reduced them to gobsmacked idiots.  But now the looks had turned pure nasty.  Ever since the boy died.  Except for Patsy behind the bar, that is, who was a true blue barman, a natural mingler of the world and so friends with everyone on balance.  It was important to him that he knew who you were, and you who he was, and all the rest.  And he was good with all the factions, which Carrickphelimy was full of. 

They’re Gullivers over there, he told me, when I was up getting another drink.  Historically, they side with the Gilgans, so I’d stay well away from them. 

The town was full of factions.  You had Gullivers and Dry Hags, Poulters, Govers, Fagans, Blind Marcuses and Hackballers.  And they were always quietly at some business of war.  Once upon a time it was physical.  Nowadays it was mostly all yak and scowling.  In more cases than you could count on your hands, the factions were unclear on precisely how they got their curious names.  The onomastics were rather vague.  Some had better historians in their ranks than others and figured it out, but most just went around happy they were part of something somewhat bigger than themselves.  The people Patsy indicated as Gullivers were two men at the other end of the bar and they had the dirtiest scowls of all on them.  There was clear malevolence in their faces, yet they were bopping their heads healthily to Blue Savannah by Erasure which was currently up on the radio and all the unsettling contradictions of our town were once again allowed to manifest. 

When Lavery came in, Fitz stood up and made space in the circle for him (which as it turned out happened to be right next to Ida Roche – make of that what you will).   

Will you be buying a round, boss? said Kerley, half-codding.

I will in my hole, replied Lavery, crabbily.  I pay you well enough, don’t I?

Kerley went for an awkward sip of his pint.  You could tell he wanted to dispute this claim of Lavery’s, but he was too cowardly to do it. 

Almost as soon as the boss was in his seat, Patsy was over to supply him with his usual starter of bourbon. 

I should say to the bunch of you, said the barman, in a low voice.  Watch out for the Gullivers over there.  Just keep it down about the scandal.  That whole dead lad thing.  I’d be careful with the others too, but the Gullivers have more of a bone to pick, so there’s no knowing what they might do with drink in them.  As you know, they don’t take too kindly to you fancypants types anyway. 

The cheek of him, said Ida Roche.  Would you not have a better name to call us by?

I didn’t think you’d object to fancypants.  It’s a dandy tag to have.  I’d happily take it myself if I had the background to enforce it.  What will we call you from now on then – the Martlets?

How about The Media?

Okay.  We’ll go with that.  The Media.  Don’t I sound like a right fancypants when I say it!

Why not The Pressers? said Kerley. That could be our faction name.

Depressers.  Sounds good too.   

You know, interrupted Fitz.  They’d want to have super hearing, whoever’s been complaining about us.  To catch a single word over the noise of that radio.  It’s fierce loud, you do realise.     

I’ll turn it down, said Patsy.  Nobody complained, just so you know.  I overheard one of you use the term death by misadventure a wee bit ago, which is the tipping point for some of them.  I’d stay away from that if I were you.  They don’t look too kindly on that now. 

Who said death by misadventure? asked Fitz.  I didn’t hear anyone say that.

Someone did.  With regards the young deceased.  Anyway, if you could just keep it down.

But it was a case of death by misadventure, wasn’t it? said Ida.  Officially.

Easy now, Ida, said Lavery.  Don’t worry, Patsy.  We have it under control.  We’re just here to get polluted.

The radio was turned down and the early 90s hits became much less identifiable.  With those sounds no longer drowning us out, Lucy and I had to be careful about what we said, but we resumed our banter, only slightly more whispered and modified.   

Why are they so sensitive about death by misadventure? she asked me.  Wasn’t that how the coroner determined the chap died?

Yes, I said.  But as I see it they believe that that phrasing makes young Ernest Gilgan an imbecile.  Which it does in a roundabout way.

Ssh, said Lavery.  They’re listening.