The Heelers Diaries

the fantasy world of ireland's greatest living poet

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Location: Kilcullen (Phone 087 7790766), County Kildare, Ireland

Wednesday, August 19, 2015

murders in the rue dole yer

do you believe in ghosts monsieur asked the editor of the irish times as we supped coffee in galligans last week I was about to launch into a tract on the indestructability of energy and the immutability of matter but he silenced me with a wave off his hair how can a man die of gunshot wounds in a one door room locked from the inside where no firearm was found someone shot him through the window I suggested and he looked momentarily distrait
there are no windows on this particular room he rallied maybe he shot himself before he entered the room and then staggered in you know closing and locking the door before he expired I ventured the irish times editor shook his ears twelve times in the head and chest je n'y pense pas alors maybe there was a gun and someone removed it after the door was opened who found the body i did said the irish times editor excusing himself excuse me i have a programme schedule to sort out at montrose it was from this I knew he was also head of rte
the day was wet so I lingered over my coffee and it was several hours later when the tired looking spanish waitress tapped me on the shoulder and said i've wanted you from the moment you walked in if only life was like this I repliqued what do you really want there's a phone call for you she said someone called de gaulle you can take it at the bar
it was the irish times editor another murder he said in a tone sepulchrale that told me immediately he was upset I hope it's your drama critic I answered before my belle nature reasserted itself calmez down I added more kindly it'll be alright
he swore then for a few moments clearly under an extreme pression at length he managed to control himself enough to explain that a lowly freelancer had been electrocuted at least he wasn't killed by a ghost I ventured feebly we haven't used electricity in this building since the electricity strike ten years ago repliqued the other and my heart sank I remembered well the strike to which he referred it had ended the previous week
eliminate the impossible and whatever else remains no matter how improbable will be the solution I advised the irish times editor thought pour un moment they were killed by a time travelling robot he offered somewhat lamely
ah zut alors I boiled if that's the best you can do we might as well call the police gardai corrected the irish times editor and from this I knew he was also a pedant
in the throes of an unspeakable grief my friend had started sobbing down the phone hold on I'll be right over I told him and whatever you do don't turn on the lights or lock the doors
in the streets outside dusk had fallen and shabby old dublin as was her wont had become strangely glamorous like paris or manhattan only without the glamour a chill wind sprang up from the quays and I quickened my step students were spilling from the gates of trinity college they seemed so innocent so alive on this night of death I looked at them and tears stung my eyes trinners types oufff les precieuses ridicules
I quickened my pace in the direction of the irish times building knowing only that lives were at stake and that fate seemed to have cast me in the role of rescuer it was all so overwhelming and what if the murderer started striking down the heroes at independent house would I have to try to save their lives as well or care even
now the familiar streets had taken on a threatening aura ever thickening darkness shrouding out shrinking pools of lambent flame from the orange street lamps pretentious moi I don't know what you mean
I quickened my pace again as a car pulled into the kerb and former prime minister bertie ahern called me over psst want to see a picture of mary harney in the nude I shook my fist you clowns are ruining the country I fumed how can you give 30 percent payrises to nurses police officers and bus drivers and expect the value of money to stay the same well pardon me for living he shot back but I wasn't finished and why have you sent 300 irish troops to chad where their lives are in jeopardy without a clear military objective and why have you put those same troops right slap bang in the middle of an arab muslim genocide but failed to give them the authority to inflict a clear defeat on the instigators of that genocide and why have you done absolutely nothing in the war on muslim terror and why has the elite irish army ranger wing been smuggled back into ireland from chad after the whole lot of them fell seriously ill and why on earth but he had driven away laughing maniacally you're driving the country into a brick wall of socialist dependency I roared after him and you're putting us on the wrong side of history but I don't think he cared the car swerved around the corner out of sight and suddenly I felt terribly alone
I quickened my pace it was very dark now and I began to feel afraid the criminals in dublin tend to congregate after dark it lends a certain atmosphere to their work and they know the police will all be too busy harassing motorists driving home to their families or in my case sheepdogs budgies and parrot after a hard day at the office too busy that is to take any notice of murderers or drug dealers or rapists
the wind rustled I shivered I realised that if I quickened my pace anymore I would be running flat out thankfully the irish times building lay just ahead a beacon of constancy in a world out of control
I hurried towards it
abruptly he stepped in front of me
I knew it was him
the murderer
evil too has its own aura
I drew my gun
I couldn't see his face but I knew he was smiling
I let the gun fall to my side
what can bullets do against the pitilessness of infinite cruelty
what chance has any man of defeating such a creature
what use is it even to struggle

8 Comments:

Anonymous Anonymous said...

Heelers.
This is definitely a rip off of one of my short stories.
Le Photo Du Colonel.
Perhaps you remember it?
Regards,
Eugene Ionesco

2:20 AM  
Blogger heelers said...

Homage.
J

2:21 AM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

What's a prime minister?
Avid Fan

2:22 AM  
Blogger heelers said...

It's a Taoiseach.
James

2:23 AM  
Blogger Kat said...

Bravo! I love the theater of the absurd. :)

p.s.
I am sure Ionesco isn't really rolling over in his grave.

4:55 AM  
Blogger heelers said...

K.
Don't encourage me!
J

3:13 AM  
Anonymous MissJean said...

Ionesco, Pionesco. What I want to know is when you'll rip... erm, write an homage to Borges.

3:15 PM  
Blogger heelers said...

MJ, as soon as I find out who the hell he is.
James

6:36 AM  

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