Free Mondo Desperado by Patrick McCabe Page A

degenerate
admonitions to the now reassembling pyramid of alabaster-pale flesh, whose laughter accelerated inside my mind as I lay there, prone and red-eyed, ineffectual, empty, for all to see. As in a dream,
I perceived them begin to advance upon me, the irregular cracks upon the white ceiling slowly converging as his razor teeth shone, his grey fingers approaching as if to stroke my cheek towards
Hades and the eternal boatman, the only recollection remaining to me, consumed as I was now with exhaustion and – to my shame! – naught but a longing for oblivion, being that of my
soutane’s forcible removal and the Prince of Blackness standing over me, rubbing his night-dark hands with glee as the transformed figures – for they surely must once have been women
– cavorted, shrieking, waving their arms as they gleefully inhaled lungfuls of the purplish smoke that by now had filled the room.
    *
    When I awoke, all was silent once more, for they had vanished and everything was in its place as if I had somehow wandered into an establishment which, with the absolute minimum
of effort on the part of anyone, would somehow always succeed in garnering first prize in any presbytery-of-the year competition. It was absolutely immaculate. As I composed myself, I endeavoured
to piece together the series of events which had led to my abandonment in a totally unfamiliar environment, flushed and soutane-less, and was succeeding to some extent in piecing together the many
ill-fitting components of the jigsaw when suddenly I became aware of a sealed cream manila envelope at my elbow, which I opened with trembling hands. I had good reason, as I within moments began to
realize, to feel apprehensive, for the contents of that envelope fashioned for me a prison which, albeit with invisible bars, would soon prove itself to be as impregnable an Alcatraz or any
high-security place of incarceration as those of a fiercely custodial frame of mind have yet to dream up. For the words which I read upon that fine, unstained stationery informed me – with
not the slightest hint of equivocation – that if I ‘made the slightest attempt’ to ‘follow his “Nocturnal Grace” ever again’ – and here I experienced
a particular frisson of arctic coldness, for the word ‘ever’ was both italicized and in bold type – he would have no hesitation in activating the diabolic genes which he and his
‘lady friends’ had implanted within me as I slept, the consummate consequence of which would be that, helpless to prevent myself, I would find myself running amok in the streets and
villages of Ireland, murdering people, robbing and looting shops, selling drugs and burning down churches and people’s houses. So, his eerie scrawl concluded (even it too seemed redolent of
anthracite), if I had any sense, I would know what to do and remain for quite a sizeable portion of the foreseeable future where I belonged – safely within the confines of the Bishop’s
Palace, with my mouth securely shut.
    *
    His career since that awful night has been handsomely productive. Rarely a day goes past but someone is shot or pitchforked and only yesterday £150 million worth of
narcotics was discovered in Newtownburkett. Occasionally I will switch on the television to find him confronting me once more, discoursing freely on the topic of ‘young people’ and
describing with tented fingers how he considers Jesus to be his ‘special friend’. At times like that it is all I can do not to weep or put my carpet slipper through the screen. For I
know that no matter what I do, or what labyrinthine plan of action I formulate, it is clear that I have been trumped. How can I pretend it to be otherwise when he has implanted within me what can
only be described as the equivalent of a nuclear time bomb? Even worse, he has, through some form of hypnosis, succeeded in convincing many of my fellow clergymen that I am jealous of him and that
it is for this reason and