Young Frankenstein

Monday through Friday, and on the occasional Saturday, while Dad was an honest working man, he would try to stay off the drink in the evenings because he had to have a clear head to count his money against his tickets and do the tallying-up, using the basic maths he said every man should know. His temperance during the working week permitted him to make up for it at the weekends, and on the Friday or the Saturday night he would arrive home already half-drunk, having driven to a pub he had found close to the Markets, a couple of streets distant from where he worked. It is possible that it was the same establishment he walked to the evening he took my brother and me to the Saint Malachy’s College production of Young Frankenstein. Once the curtain fell we jumped into the Hillman Hunter, and on our way home he parked up in the Markets, in a dead carpark, in the dead of night.

“I’ll just be a wee while, boys,” he said as he opened the door. “Keep the windows and doors closed. And make sure not to speak to anybody.” With that he walked across the carpark, turned a corner and disappeared. We knew we were somewhere we should not have been.

“Where the hell are we?” asked my brother.

“The Markets, I think. Jesus. I hope he’s not long.”

“E, we shouldn’t be here.”

“I know.”

Our time in the car we spent in silence, watching as cars passed us by. We were wary of cars that slowed down, wary of passengers taking a little too much interest. It was late though, so for the most part it was quiet. Very quiet. Then, suddenly, they were on top of us, the British Army. A Saracen screeched to a halt in front of the car, and from the back jumped five or six British soldiers. Some jumped out and crouched behind the wheels of their vehicle; others fell flat to the ground or onto one knee before scanning the darkness along the barrels of their guns. All had their weapons at the ready, and many of those weapons were aimed directly at us.

“Jesus, E!”

“I know!”

“Where the fuck is he?”

“I wish I fucking knew!”

As more gun sights found the car, and soldiers continued to pour from the vehicle, I jumped out, and with my hands in the air shouted, “Stop! Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!” I stood with my hands up for some moments before one soldier broke rank and stood up, his gun pointed right at me. Static voices crackled over wireless packs in the vehicle and on one or two of the soldiers. He approached slowly, his Armalite rifle steady, level with my chest.

“You. Stay there. Don’t move.” As he came closer to the car he peered inside - with his eyes and with his gun - seeing my brother in the back seat. A few feet away from me, gripping me fast with his eyes, he signaled to the others to ease up.

“What’s the problem then, lads? Why are you out here?” Such a terrifying accent. A British accent.

“We’re with our Dad, and he went across the carpark, over there. We think he’s in the pub.” My voice cracked with nerves, and sweat broke all over. I didn’t know what was worse, being face-to-face with a Brit carrying a gun or getting my Dad in trouble.

“We’re just waiting here on him coming back,” shouted my brother.

“Okay. Take it easy, lads. You, stay there. You, back in.”

The soldier returned to the Saracen and spoke to another soldier up front. Returning to us he walked backwards, checking roofs along the darkened streets, always following the barrel of his gun.

“How long has your Dad been gone then?”

“Maybe half an hour. I don’t know. He said he wouldn’t be long. An hour?”

“What bar did he go to?”

“We’ve no idea.”

“Live round here do you, lads?”

“No, Carrick.”

“Alright then. Stay where you are. Hold on, hold on... Is this your Dad?”

We looked over our shoulders and recognised instantly the figure in the distance, shuffling through the shadows.

“Yes, that’s him.”

Our father approached slowly, almost casually, his head down, and he was wiping his mouth with a handkerchief, the magic hanky obviously, the one that sobered you up, made your breath minty fresh. He spoke with the soldiers for a few brief moments, but that conversation is lost on the wind. Dad opened the car door, settled into his seat, paused a moment, then drove us home. We drove the twelve miles in silence.

“Do me a wee favour, will youse boys?” he asked as we came within sight of The Vatican. “Don’t tell your mammy what happened tonight. Okay, boys?”

On many a night, he would have a few in the Markets before getting back in the car and heading for The Brown Cow, his favourite Carrick bar. On Saturdays he would drink all day if he didn't have to work, and if he was going fishing he would pack a flask of whiskey and put it in his bag with his lines, bait, and the small animal cartridges destined for the faces of the stubborn Proud Protestant who dared get back up, or if there was more than one of the bastards. Brown Cow, Pheasant Inn, fishing, Pheasant Inn, Brown Cow. He rarely strayed from that order.

On Sunday mornings he went to mass reeking of alcohol, and we knew that people could tell in the church because his small talk was cursory - often, almost rude in his haste - and he would slur the responses occasionally, disguising his sloppiness with a cough and his magic handkerchief. And afterwards, outside, he might light a cigarette for distraction. When he left us home after mass he stayed in the car, telling Mum he would be back soon, when the dinner was cooked and ready. “I’m just going out for a wee while.”