Free John the Revelator by Peter Murphy Page B

John’s gotten great with that young Corboy,’ she said. ‘His mother’s a pretty little thing. If a bit ... affected.’
    Now I was all ears. I stole down the steps, taking care to avoid the creaky one.
    â€˜Aye,’ said my mother.
    Mrs Nagle took my mother’s reluctance to elaborate as a signal to continue.
    â€˜He’s a quare card, that youngster. I wonder if he isn’t a bit of a sissy.’
    â€˜That’s enough now, Phyllis.’
    â€˜You can’t be too careful raring a young lad these days is all I’m saying. Things are not like they were in our time.’
    There was a lapse in the conversation, and the air seemed to almost quiver with what was unspoken. Then Mrs Nagle said, ‘How’s John been in himself lately?’
    â€˜He’s fine.’
    â€˜Y’know, there was talk around the village about the pair of them.’
    â€˜People always talk, Phyllis. It’s what they do when they’ve nothing better to occupy themselves with. You know that.’
    â€˜Aye, well, I hope that little louser didn’t corrupt your John...’
    â€˜Phyllis—’
    â€˜...Turn him into a molly boy or anything.’
    A hand slapped the table, causing the cups and saucers to rattle.
    â€˜That’s enough of that kind of talk, Phyllis. Whoever my son chooses to knock about with is his own business.’
    Ah here, Lily...’
    â€˜I’m telling you. Be on your way. I’ve had my fill of you for one morning.’
    A chair scraped.
    â€˜All right,’ Mrs Nagle said. ‘If you can’t be civil with me, you can keep your own company. God knows you’re used to it.’
    She hurried into the hall and caught sight of me on the stairs. Her eyes narrowed into slits. She hurried out and slammed the door. My mother put the latch on and did a double-take when she spotted me on the step.
    â€˜Did you hear any of that?’ she said.
    I shrugged my shoulders.
    â€˜Couldn’t help but.’
    She rolled her eyes.
    â€˜Pay no attention. Mrs Nagle says more than her prayers.’

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    Old Crow sleeps like a bat, hanging upside down by his claws from the withered bough of a dead alder tree, and as he sleeps he dreams, and what he dreams of is a thousand years ago, when a rabble drunk on mead plundered Clonmacnoise, and for their sins were stricken with a plague that laid waste to the county. Snow covered everything, cold caused the perishing of fowl and fish and wild animals. Lightning struck, crops were blighted and there followed a great earthquake; a fiery steeple appeared in the air for five hours, and out of it emerged flocks of black birds that picked up a greyhound from the middle of a town and carried it away, and in their wake there came the worst of all murrains.

V
    Chapel bells pealed through the Sunday morning peace, calling the people of Kilcody out to Mass. Jamey and his family sauntered up the road like a troupe of weird birds, Maurice first, a tall man with a receding hairline and thin body, except for a bulbous paunch that put the buttons of his white sleeve-rolled shirt under pressure. Dee followed a half-step behind dressed in a sort of trouser suit, her tired blond hair loosened about her shoulders. As for Jamey, he was an eye-opener in his blah-coloured slacks, hair slicked back from his face with some sort of oily gunk, holding Ollie’s hand. They crunched across the pebbles, Dee sort of shooing the boys inside while trying to keep abreast of her husband.
    Jamey stopped to scrutinise the coloured stones arrayed across one side of the path. He peered a bit, lip-synced what they spelled out—
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MERDE A DIEU
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    â€”and a grin split his face. Dee snapped at him to hurry on, so he scrambled the pebbles with his shoe and tramped into the chapel, where hymn-singers had already started to hail the queen of heaven.
    I was watching from among the headstones, hunkered under the