Free Nowhere Near Milkwood by Rhys Hughes Page A

other noise? That hideous screeching and wailing?
    NANCY:  Oh, that’s just the old woman.
    RONALD: What old woman?
    NANCY:  The old woman who made the soup.
     
    As you can imagine, McJocky soon had his fill of tourists. Whenever he materialised in front of them, headless and bloodstained, they would insist on taking a photograph. They were never able to develop the prints, of course, but that didn’t stop them from coming back next year and trying again.”
    The little man paused and licked his lips. He adjusted his hat and made a series of pained faces. It was obviously an uncomfortable fit, his hat, for he kept holding on to it with both hands as if it was about to spring into the air. Hywel leaned over the bar until his nose was within an inch of the stranger’s own.
    “So what happened next?” he demanded.
    The stranger sighed and rolled his eyes. “He eventually decided that he needed a holiday. Now tell me, where would you expect a ghost who lives near the beautiful wooded Kyle of Tongue to go on holiday? Where would a soul used to rugged landscape and natural wonders go to find peace of mind?”
    “Transylvania,” I suggested.
    “Shangri-La,” countered Hywel.
    The stranger shook his head. He twiddled his thumbs in some mordant satisfaction and uttered a little laugh. I was reminded of the rustle of bat’s wings in a cave lit by a single candle – that is going out. His laugh became a whimper.
    “No, he moved into a bedsit in Birmingham for two weeks, living (if that’s the right word!) on chips and lard sandwiches. He started drinking cheap lager and sitting in front of the television all day. He wore a string vest and picked his ghostly nostrils with an insubstantial finger. He forgot to wash under his arms and never brushed his hair. He claimed afterward it was the best time he has ever had.”
    Hywel turned to face me with a look of disbelief etched on his ruddy features. I gazed at the bottom of my glass and wished for a rain of stout. I even contemplated making my farewells. The little man nodded.
    “When the holiday was over, he returned to the drab comforts of an entire castle, with its silks and gold and home brewed mead. But every year he dreams of returning to the simple life of egg on toast and damp wallpaper. He’s been saving up to buy a time-share there.”
    At last, Hywel could contain himself no longer. He seized hold of the stranger’s collar and half-dragged him over the bar. “Before we accept your tale as true,” he said, “we need to have some proof. How is it that you are in a position to collect ghosts when no-one else can?”
    The little man was just about to reply when the doors burst open and a crowd of dead Irish writers stampeded toward the bar. It was lunchtime, of course. I recognised many faces among the poets and authors: Joyce, Beckett, O’Casey, Brian Merriman, Yeats, Flann O’Brien, Brendan Behan. But I soon lost sight of the little man. His hat was knocked off in the crush and then he had disappeared in a sea of thirsty bodies. Hywel had released his grip when the first literary foot crossed the threshold.
    I peered around frantically and finally spotted him creeping toward the door. Without his tall hat he appeared ludicrously small. I was still curious to hear more about his collection of ghosts, so I called after him: “Mr Burke, you’ve forgotten your hat!” He turned around to face me with a scowl and then vanished through the doors. I was desperate. “Mr Burke!” I cried again.
    Hywel had been pouring a continuous stream of velvet pints, but my shout attracted his attention. Leaving the Irish writers bellowing in dismay, he relaxed his grip on the pump handle and frowned at me. “How do you know his name?” he demanded. “He refused to give it.”
    When Hywel demands something, it is best to let him have it. And so now I held up the little man’s hat – which I had picked from the floor – and reached inside it. What I pulled out explained