of paper he held in his hand. There was no mistaking the words—for the message was clear and absolute. But it still made no sense. He clearly remembered Babbie saying she would telephone him on Tuesday so they would go to the hotel for a meal. “I was to have mate,” he said to himself, “and she was to have chicken curry.” He scratched his head and tried to understand it—to no avail. He turned and called after Pat, “Maybe you could tell her to drop down to Sullivan’s tonight—say around nine o’clock? I’ll be in there having a few pints! She could have a Manhattan! She likes Manhattans, Pat!”
But Pat was already gone, Bullock’s entreaties aching and orphaned. Lost in the smoky light of an evening which now too was dying, as though to emulate the performance of a perfumed creature so revered, beneath a laurel bush now finally at rest, eyes once full of hope freeze-framed beneath the stars.
Three Lovely Lassies in Bannion
There are three lovely lassies in Bannion
Bannion, Bannion, Bannion
There are three lovely lassies in Bannion
And I am the best of them all
And I am the best of them all.
For my father has forty white shillings
Shillings, shillings, shillings
For my father has forty white shillings
And the grass of a goat and a cow
And the grass of a coat and a cow.
And my mother she says I can marry
Marry, marry, marry
And my mother she says I can marry
And she’ll leave me her bed when she dies
And she’ll leave me her bed when she dies.
And on next Sunday morning I’ll meet him
Meet him, meet him, meet him
And on next Sunday morning I’ll meet him
And I shall be dressed like a queen
And I shall be dressed like a queen.
There were, indisputably, those in Gullytown who, as regards Pat’s “eccentric” behavior, continued to vociferously express about it, their views concerning it, generally along the lines of, “Ah sure what would you expect?” and “You’re not going to tell me that you’re surprised? Sure the whole effing tribe of them is mad!!” But such callous estimations must surely be unfair, for, if anything, Pat’s valiant efforts to remain on what might be termed “terra firma” were worthy only of praise. That forces outside his control conspired to make this impossible ought to be considered no fault of his. For how many times had he attempted to restrain himself in the face of yet another verbal barrage from his mother—”Look at the cut of it! Small wonder the whole town’s laughing at you!” or “Go on to the dance, then, for all the luck you’ll have at it, you dying-looking scarecrow on legs!”—before, at last, his endurance came to an end? One single blow of the aluminium saucepan eventually felling her, rendering her prone and silent at his feet, as some stuffed large, life-sized doll. No, there may indeed be many cases in the history of the world’s criminology where the bard’s chilling observation from the pages of Macbeth—“I am in blood stepp’d in so far that, should I wade no more, returning were as tedious as go o’er”—are more than applicable, but it should have been impossible to consider “the McNab affair” as one of them. For the plain truth is, readers, that Pat was simply one of life’s unfortunates. And was such right from the very first day when he laid his dear beloved—and make no mistake about it, he did love her!—in the earth beneath the laurel bush (even on occasions, going so far as to disinter her and ferry her—again—into the “warmth” so that it would be “just like old times”), events moving with a rapidity that pitched a perfectly innocent young man into the very heart of a black and swirling cosmos, the inevitable outcome of which could only be the inclusion of Pat McNab among the sinister pages of a tome endded, perhaps, Great Murderers and Sociopaths of History.
But what great murderer wants simply to don RayBan shades, sing songs, and imbibe a few social glasses of Macardles Ale in his local hostelry? What sociopath? None—for such a description of Pat McNab is surely as inaccurate as asserting that the town of Ballynahinch is situated in the middle of O’Connell Street. No, Pat was no sociopath, and in the fullness of time the truth will emerge and the enormity of Pat’s heart and generous nature be finally revealed to the world. As it might long ago have been but for the occurrence of what he himself liked to