which effectively terminated his conscious state. There can be no describing the state of—perhaps inexcusable!—utter glee in which Pat and his mother (Pat had slipped in unnoticed and gently closed the door behind him) reduced the tormented musician to a helpless mass of unrecognizable pulp in what might be described as an orgy of bloody, frenzied, alternative “bebop” improvisation.
There were the occasional references to Scott Buglass throughout the district afterward, along the lines of (advanced by perplexed members of Scott’s “crew”), “We’ve never heard from him since” or “Now that he’s in England, he’s forgotten all about us!” But in the end these too began to fade as flowers might at the onset of winter or those once eagerly inserted into the barrels of military firearms; and when the rumors of “drugs”—initially advanced in the grocer’s by Mrs. McNab—began, all talk of Scott Buglass and the so-called “Fabulous Groovers of the 1960s” began to disappear, eventually, like the sad protagonist, fading without leaving so much as a single trace.
Sometimes, for years afterward, late at night in the library, Pat would place his only remaining talisman of that time (a record by Alan Price, “I Put a Spell on You,” which Nikki had given him—”I want you to have this”) and sit with his chin in his hand wistfully reflecting upon those times. And as the flames in the fire danced once more, he would fancy he heard the voice of a poor deluded musician, a sunglassed sexbomb in a candy-striped blazer, crying out from where he was trying to reach him. And, you know, sometimes, the strangest thing of all is, it would be as though he were saying, “u”Pat! Pat, I’m sorry for what happened—and, if we ever meet again, this time I know that we’ll be the best of friends. The way it should have been all along!” small coals shifting as outside the huge night turned toward sleep, the thin sound of a plangent guitar seeming to issue from a jasmine-scented bedsit many light-years away, in a galaxy not yet born.
Twenty-one Years
The judge said, Stand up lad and dry your tears
You’re sentenced to Dartmoor for twenty-one years,
So dry up your tears, love, and kiss me good-bye
The best friends must part, love, and so must you and I.
I hear the train coming, ‘twill be here at nine
To take me to Dartmoor to serve up my time.
I look down the railway and plainly I see
You standing there waving your good-byes to me.
Six months have gone by, love, I wish I was dead
This dark dreary dungeon has gone to my head
It’s hailing, it’s raining, the moon gives no light.
Now won’t you tell me, love, why you never write?
I’ve waited, I’ve trusted, I’ve longed for the day
A lifetime so lonely, now my hair’s turning gray.
My thoughts are for you, love, till I’m out of mind
For twenty-one years is a mighty long time.
It is a fine fresh day in the garden, and there can be no doubt but that Pat McNab is feeling happy and contented with himself as he digs away at his drills beneath the hot burning sun, thinking to himself, “As soon as I have this done, I’ll move on up above there to my turnips and, who knows, perhaps the lettuces too if I have time.” Whistling away (a familiar tune, and one which was a favorite of his mammy’s: Cliff Richard’s top ten hit “Bachelor Boy”), he turns over a clod with the corner of his spade, fancying he sees something glittering in it and is bending down to examine it more closely when he receives a large resounding slap to the middle of his back and turns to see what can only be described as the “colossal” figure of Sergeant Foley towering above him with a broad smile, exclaiming, “Pat!”
“Jesus Mary and Joseph, Sergeant, you put the heart crossways in me!” was Pat’s reply as he struggled to his feet.
The sergeant doffed his cap and stared morosely into the small amphitheater of its darkness.
“Pat,” he sighed, placing both hands on his hips, “you’ll never guess what’s after happening.”
Pat knitted his brow and touched his chin with the fingers of his right hand.
“What, Sergeant?” he ventured querulously. “Someone shot? The bank! The bank’s been robbed! That’s it, isn’t it, Sergeant? Oh my God! How much? Everything in the safe taken!”
The sergeant shook his head and drummed a little tune on the circumference of the cap as he continued, “No, Pat! I only wish to God it had!