The Gathering: Chapter 2 - A night out that started well

previously

Now

The night was going well for Joe McMahon. He had peeled off from the lads and was now giving two girls the benefit of his silver tongue. They were escapees from a hen party and only to happy to listen to his patter. Joe was confident that the night would end with him riding one or other of the girls. Or maybe both, they were clearly both interested and by the time he had poured a night's worth of drink into them they would be feeling a bit adventurous.

But it was proving to be an expensive night. Their drinks were running low, but his wallet was emptying out too. The bar did not take plastic, so this called for desperate measures.

"Here girls", he said, "I'm going to have to nip out to the drinklink. I'll be right back - don't go anywhere!"

"We'll be waiting!" said the one of the girls whose name Joe thought was Laura, though he couldn't be sure.

"Don't get lost!" said the other, with a giggle. Joe had no idea what her name was, but she was the saucier of the two.

Joe gave them a wave and went out into the street. It was cold. The weather had turned in the last few days and it really felt like winter had arrived. Or maybe the weather was always like this when you went this far from Dublin. Either way the wind was cutting into Joe and he feared that at any moment it was about to start bucketing down.

Where was the bank machine again? The town was not a big one, but it had been daylight when Joe had last been outside. That was several pints of Heineken back as well. He wandered down the main street in a slightly confused manner. He thought of asking the locals for directions, but they did not look friendly. Any of them he saw on the street seemed to be either scowling at him or looking they were ready to snigger at him behind his back. Fucking townies, thought Joe. The whole local economy was based on bilking money out of people like Joe who were down for stag or hen weekends, but that did not seem to engender any love of visitors in the hearts of the locals. Joe suspected that if he asked any of them for directions they would either laugh in his face or give him deliberately false information.

So it was with some relief that the street suddenly became more familiar and he recognised the turn-off that led to the bank. Then the rain started, forcing Joe to break into a run lest he die of pneumonia before he realised his threesome dream with the two young ladies. At the machine, he replenished his wallet and turned to make his way back to the pub. He could go back the way he had come - but there was an alleyway beside the bank that looked like it provided a short cut back to the bar and the girls. In this kind of weather any saving of time was worth it, so Joe headed off down the lane.

Although the close walls on either side of the alley provided some shelter from the rain, the lane seemed to work as a funnel for the wind blowing through the town. The cold gusts cut through Joe, but the whistling and hooting sound was more unnerving. It sounded less like the wind and more like some kind of human or animal shrieking. It had to be some kind of acoustic effect of the laneway, Joe thought, but it did not stop him shivering from more than just the cold and the wet.

At least the lane was well lit and he would be out of the cold in a minute, back in the company of those two eager women. But just as that thought crossed his mind, there was a flash of light and then the electric lights in the laneway went out of action. A clap of thunder followed, making Joe jump almost out of his skin. He stumbled into something - a dustbin, he realised - and fell over, with the metallic bin clattering as it hit against the wall.

"Shite", Joe exclaimed out loud. He was soaking wet now and he could not see a thing. He started picking himself to his feet and fumbling in his pocket for his phone, which at least would have some kind of light. But he could still hear the sound of the wind and rain falling. And another sound, something else that he had not heard before, the sound of something coming up the laneway towards him. A dog, he thought desperately, but that was not the kind of noise a dog made. Where the fuck was his phone? He pulled it out of his pocket but in his haste it fell from his hand before he could use it to light whatever it was that was creeping towards him. Something big that was creeping towards him, something that seemed to be making hungry noises, something that was getting ready to feed…

Joe snapped. The adrenaline hit him like a thunderbolt, triggering a flight-or-fight reaction. He chose flight, running blindly up the lane away from the noise. But he tripped over another bin and went flying, hitting his head badly on a wall. Now he was slumped on the ground, dazed, but knowing that he had to get up and get away. But it was too late. He felt his leg being grabbed. He opened his mouth to scream, but something wrapped itself around his face, smothering him. Then he was being dragged by head first down the laneway, back the way he had came. The streetlights came back on, but for Joe things had already gone dark.

Next Chapter

The Gathering: Chapter 1 - Helping out an old friend

Then

If you asked anyone about Hunter Maddocks, they would tell you that he was a good man. He worked hard for a good company and had made a success of his career. He was married to a beautiful and charming woman. He had three great kids - two strapping lads and a little girl who would clearly grow up to break hearts. He lived in a swell house and went away whenever he could to his vacation lodge by the lake. Hunter Maddocks was a good man and everything was going just fine with him.

That is what anyone you asked would tell you, unless you asked me or Bobby Lomax. We went a long way back with Hunter Maddocks, and we knew things about him that other people didn't. We knew he had had a rough time of it in the war. Sure, we all had. You've heard what that general said, about how all that talk of glory is moonshine, about how war is hell? We had seen that close up, seen things that no one should ever have to see. I don't know if Hunter saw worse things than we did, but he was never quite right when he came back home after it was all over. Sure, he could put on a brave face and smile to the world and work away at his job and work his way up through the company, picking up a great woman and some wonderful kids along the way, but part of him never left the war behind. And every so often he would find it all coming back to him and he would have to do something to wipe it all out of his mind.

Sometimes Hunter would head down to a seedy bar where no one knew him and pour cheap liquor into himself until he couldn't remember his name, let alone what it was that was upsetting him. That's what he used to do, but liquor wasn't enough for him anymore. That’s how bad it had got with Hunter Maddocks, the fellow everyone thought was such a good man - when it all got too much for him, he would head out into the city in search of dope. He was still together enough not to bring shame on his family, so he did not go to some crooked doctor spinning a yarn about a sore back that would merit a prescription that a drugstore clerk would supply before blabbing to and sundry. Instead Maddocks would make his way to those parts of town where a man like him can go unrecognised and there satisfy his craving.

So when my telephone rang late at night and a tearful woman's voice came on the line it set me down a road I had been on many times before.

"Mrs Maddocks?" I said. "Is this about Hunter?"

"Oh yes", she answered, "You know it is. He hasn't come home tonight. He was upset last night and seemed out of sorts this morning before heading out. It's happened again, hasn't it?"

"Don't worry, Mrs Maddocks. We'll get him home to you safe and sound".

"I don't know what I'd do without you and Bobby. But it's getting worse, isn't it? It's so soon since the last time".

It was true. Hunter's episodes were becoming more frequent. He needed to see a shrink or something, to try and sort himself out, but his fear of exposure meant that he kept saying that this time he would be able to deal with it himself. But then it would happen again. It was only a matter of time before he was exposed as the dope fiend he was. Or worse, that something terrible would happen to him in the bad part of town.

But I couldn't let his wife dwell on this. "Don't worry, Mrs Maddocks", I said, in my most reassuring voice. "We'll bring him home to you. And then we'll make sure he gets the help he needs. He'll come out of this, don't you worry".

"Oh God, I hope so".

I couldn't bear to bear to hear that good woman sound so anguished, so I brought the conversation to a close. Then I rang Bobby. He wasn't too pleased to get a call from me at that hour of the night, but he knew immediately what I was ringing about. I told him to get dressed and wait for me. Then I ran out and got a cab over to his place, where we picked him up and went on to the waterfront.

You know what it's like down there by the river? When business was better, it was a bustling spot, with boats loading and unloading at all hours of the day and night. Now it was the kind of place no sensible person would visit after dark. The waterfront was a nest of thieves, a cesspit of the worst kind of human trash. And it was the part of town that the foreign elements called home, mostly because their kind was not welcome in the more decent parts of town. This was where Maddocks could obtain the narcotic filth he was looking for. So it was that Bobby and I found ourselves pushing our way through a succession of degenerate dope houses in the hope of finding our friend before it was too late.

And we did find him, in a fetid den run by a grinning Chinaman, where the other denizens were particularly degenerate members of that oriental race. The owner of the establishment knew we were not looking for his sick fare ourselves, but he also could tell that we were not policemen and so posed no real threat to his business. So he smiled at us in a manner that made me want to punch him hard in the face and left us to look around without offering any impediment.

When we found Maddocks he was lying on a filthy mat, his eyes barely open, spittle dribbling from his mouth.

"Oh jeez", said Bobby, "he's in a bad way".

"Come on, let's get him out of here", I said, trying to project a confidence I did not feel. I pushed over to Maddocks, stepping over several prostrate and unconscious Chinese men. Bobby followed while the grinning Chinamen watched us and said nothing. I bent down to Maddocks and spoke to him in a quiet but firm tone.

"Maddocks. Hunter", I said. "It's me. Bobby's here too. We're going to take you home now, Hunter".

"Take me home?" he answered, stretching the words out so that it seemed like an eternity before he finished the short question.

"Come on Bobby", I said, grabbing one of Maddocks' arms. Bobby grabbed the other and we raised him up and then dragged him to the door. He did not protest, though we did disturb some of the other patrons who emitted low piteous moans. This seemed to amuse the grinning proprietor who moved out of our way as we went through the door, down a crooked flight of steps and out into the narrow alleyway that led to the entrance. We carried along and he continued to hang limp. But something seemed to give him the desire to talk, and we had to endure the pointless ramblings of our doped up friend, spoken excessively slowly and in a tone that made it hard to follow what he was saying.

"I made a friend, you know?" he said. We made no reply, but he continued. "He was like me, but he seemed very upset… had to take a lot of it to stop himself from thinking about it, he said. And how funny… you came for me, and his friends had already come for him. But I' m not sure if they were really his friends. He wasn't too happy to see them".

"Are you happy to see us, Hunter?" said Bobby, affecting a cheery tone that called to mind our days of youthful derring-do.

"I'm always happy to see you fellows", replied Maddocks. "You’re much nicer to me than my friend's friends were, you know? He wasn't too happy to see them, let me tell you".

I was not interested in his tales of how he was making friends with other dopers. The last thing I wanted to happen was for him to fall into some kind of acquaintance with those degenerates, as next thing they would be sure to start leeching off him and luring him further into a life of depravity.

"Stow it, Hunter", I snapped. "That doper is no good friend of yours and you should forget all about him. You've got to put that side of your life behind you, you understand? Look, here's a cab. We're bringing you home to your wife and kids who love you and need you".

We bundled him into the cab and told the driver where to take us. Maddocks said nothing more on the way home. Bobby and I said nothing either. What was there for us to say?

Next Chapter

[AUTHOR'S VOICE: I should add that I am a bit uncomfortable with the racist undercurrent in this excerpt. I was trying to replicate past mindsets and genre conventions, but I think perhaps that some things are better confined to the dustbin of history. I hope readers take it that the character is racist, not me, though I would probably be offended if I read this kind of thing written by someone else.]

Organisation Man - Chapters 1 & 2

These are the first two chapters of my successful 2011 NaNoWriMo attempt, largely unedited.

Chapter 1

Barry Ryan worked for an organisation that did not exist. As it did not exist, it did not have a name, and was known to those aware of its existence simply as the Organisation. The Organisation did of course exist for Ryan in the sense that he worked for it, that it provided him with a desk to sit at, that he had colleagues and a boss who instructed him on what to do. He even had some juniors he could get to perform mundane clerical tasks for him. But if Barry were to mention his employer to anyone, they would look at him blankly or think he was making some kind of joke. The Irish parliament did of course vote monies to the Organisation each year, but the amount was deliberately kept so low that no actual body could credibly exist on its official budget, and for all the monies voted for it the Organisation never delivered an annual report (at least, not a public one) and maintained no official premises or presence. The Organisation instead maintained a shadowy existence, nested within one of the less glamorous government departments, drawing parasitically on it for resources. Barry and his colleagues existed on paper as a division within that department, one whose purpose seemed at best unclear to the rest of its staff. This notional division operated out of an anonymous office building in central Dublin whose other occupants were from a different department entirely. They had no inkling of the deep work being carried out in the building they worked in.

Barry arrived into work on what seemed like it would be a morning like any other. His unctuous colleague Lyon was loafing around his desk.

"Well well well, Mr Ryan, you're a bit late, aren't you?" Lyon asked in an accusatory tone.

"I think not, I swiped in before the deadline", replied Ryan, taking off his coat and wishing Lyon would fuck off to any someone else.

"Well I'm not sure the boss would agree – he was down looking for you an hour ago".

Ryan noticed a sticky on the monitor of his computer, with a handwritten scrawl in the distinctive pidgin Irish favoured by the Chief:

"A CHARA, DUL SUAS MÉ A FEACH ANOIS, MAS É DO THOIL IS MISE ETC. – P"

"Thanks Lyon, I can read". Ryan sat down at his desk. "Any idea what this is about?"

"No no, but the boss seemed very agitated. I bet you're in big trouble, better get up there sharpish". Lyon sniggered.

"I suppose I should", Ryan said, trying to affect an air of nonchalance but actually worried. Having to deal with the Chief was always difficult and often involved such unpleasantness as being given work to do. "But don't you have things to be doing? Maybe you should fuck off to do them?"

Lyon adopted a facial expression suggested a highly exaggerated sense of hurt at Ryan's expletive and retreated away, though as he disappeared behind a partition Barry was blessed with a last glimpse of his grinning maw.

I'd better go and see the Chief, thought Barry.



Chapter 2

Ryan made his way down the corridor to the Chief's office and knocked on the door. A grunted "Dul isteach" called him in.

"Ah, Barra, maith thú," said the Chief, looking up from some papers on his desk. "Is mhaith liom tú atá anseo. Suigí síos, suigí síos".

Ryan sat in the chair indicated for him. Its low design was almost certainly arranged deliberately so that from behind his desk the Chief (a man not over blessed in height) could tower over any visitor.

"So, you were looking for me, Chief?" asked Ryan, using English in the hope that it would divert his boss into a language he could actually understand.

"Yes, Barry, yes I was," said the Chief in the tongue of Ireland's enemies. The twin portraits behind him of Padraig Pearse and Rory O'Connor looked down disapprovingly. "Strange things are afoot. Tell me, how are things with you at the moment? Are they going well?"

"Oh yes, well I can't complain, not that it stops me". Ryan wondered where this was going.

"Do you have much on at the moment?"

The Chief fixed Ryan with a steely gaze. This was always a worrying question. It signified either that the Chief had some kind of new task for him or that he suspected him of slacking off. Given that Ryan was slacking off, he had to be careful how to respond. But if he were to claim that he was incredibly busy with all kinds of non-existent activity there was the danger that the Chief might take an interest in it and ask him for a full report on where his investigations were going.

"Well," he replied, playing for time, "I'm collating information from a number of informants and sources".

"Anything out of the ordinary? Anything juicy?"

"Well, it's pretty routine stuff, to be honest. Low grade data, nothing anyone would get too excited about".

"I see, I see". The Chief paused, staring into space as though pondering some weighty question. He started to hum a song to himself. Ryan recognised it as having lyrics involving Black and Tans, the Flight of the Earls, the infamy of Diarmuid McMurrough and the heroic victory of Fontenoy. It was one of the Chief's party pieces and he always made sure to sing it at the Organisation's Christmas party, forcing everyone to join in on the chorus.

The Chief kept humming his song to himself, now seemingly oblivious to Ryan's presence. When he switched from that to a ballad listing all of Ireland's fallen heroes Ryan began to wonder if it would be acceptable for him to leave, or if perhaps he should call a doctor. Instead he made a slight cough to remind the Chief of his presence. This snapped the great man out of his reveries. He appeared somewhat confused.

"Cad atá isteach?" he muttered. He then noticed Ryan, looked at him quizzically, and then recollected himself. Nodding sagely, the Chief picked up a bundle of papers and handed them to Barry. "What do you make of this?" he inquired.

Ryan looked at the bundle. A4 size, bound with two staples in the spine, it seemed to be somewhere between 50 and a hundred pages in length. The cover had a photocopied image of some black circles and some text while the back had a crudely reproduced photocopy of a typewritten text. None of the writing meant anything to him.

"It doesn't look like much to me, Chief", Ryan answered.

"It's not meant to, Barry, it's not meant to. But I have reason to believe that what you are holding in your hand is a threat to the security of the State". The Chief imparted this information in the most solemn tone a short bearded man can muster.

"Really?" said Ryan, trying to sound like he was open to the suggestion that the photocopied papers represented some kind of existential crisis. "What makes you think that?"

"I have my reasons", answered the Chief. He was smug now, confident that his simple statement was enough to dispel any doubts on the part of his subordinate.

"And what is the nature of the threat they contain?" asked Ryan, wondering if it might not be too late to put in a transfer to a proper Department where the senior management were at least somewhat competent and blessed with some kind of understanding of where reality ended and fantasy began.

"Well Barry, that is what I want you to find out. Stop what you are doing immediately, and take this document on. Read it carefully. Carefully! I have my reasons for believing that it contains coded messages – signals between foreign powers and their agents in this country, as well as communications between subversive elements. Find out what's going on here, Barry!"

The Chief was emphatic. Barry was still somewhat confused.

"Would it be possible for you to, | don't know, fill me in on your reasons for thinking that this document contains such coded messages?"

"I'm afraid not, Barry". The Chief was smug again. "Need to know, a chara, need to know".

"I see".

"Well Barry", said the Chief, in a tone indicating that the conversation was over, "I can't keep you from your important work any longer. I know I can count on you on this one".

"Thanks Chief" said Barry, making his way to the door. "You can rely on me".

"But Barry!" said the Chief abruptly just as Ryan was leaving. "Keep this under your hat! Don't let anyone else know what you're working on. This stuff is dynamite. We can't let the Opposition find out that we're onto them. Trust no one. Tell nothing to anyone. Least of all to that gobshite Lyon. There's a question mark over him, if you see what I'm saying".

"I'm with you Chief", said Ryan, secretly pleased that there was some prospect of Lyon being exposed as a double agent and despatched to the Organisation's holding facility in Belmullet. "Be seeing you".

* * * * *

While Ryan had been having this conversation with the Chief, Lyon had gone back to his desk smiling happily to himself. He enjoyed his chats with his colleague Ryan, their friendly banter being a large part of what made working in the Organisation bearable. He could tell that Ryan was grateful for having been tipped off that the Chief was looking for him – forewarned is forearmed, after all. He was a good fellow, was Barry Ryan. With people like him on the case the country was in safe hands.

So Lyon mused as he went back to work on his investigations into Ethiopian intelligence infiltration of the Library Association of Ireland.

* * * * *
After surfing the Internet for the best part of an hour Ryan reckoned that maybe it was time to start looking at the document the Chief had given him. A quick skim suggested that it was some kind of amateur publication dealing with music – or so, on the surface, it appeared. The font and layout seemed to go through abrupt changes from one part of the document to another, corresponding to the purported authors of each piece. A list of contributors at the beginning confirmed that they were located in Ireland, Britain and the United States, with one in the Netherlands. But Ryan noticed one thing that made him wonder whether maybe, just maybe, the Chief might actually be onto something. The various musical performers mentioned in the publication were not what one would call household names. Ryan did not think of himself as a keen music aficionado, but he did listen to the radio and felt that he was reasonably au fait with the latest happening sounds. In the Chief's document, however, there seemed to be a succession of references to performers that he had never heard of, usually named as playing kinds of music that sounded distinctly fictional. This would be an ideal way of hiding coded messages. Might the Chief not actually be delusional?

He opened a page at random and started reading more closely.

"The first band I saw were Nuada, some English-Irish folkies (two women and a man) who perform in (faux?) period costumes and play various olde instruments. They were playing when we arrived in the Dock on the first night. I think I liked them because I had not realised that the festival was going to be featuring anything other than guys fiddling with laptops, so they signalled that the event was going to be a bit more musically varied. I saw them again on the Sunday, when they began their set in the church by parading in playing bodhran-like drums and pipes. On this occasion I was struck by what rofflers they were."

This was accompanied by an indistinct photocopied picture of three people dressed like extras from the Lord of the Rings.

Looking back, Ryan saw that this piece of writing occurred in a discussion of a music festival – not the kind of music festival like Oxegen or the Electric Picnic that you hear about on TV and in the papers, but some kind of festival for people who get their kicks listening to music you never hear on the radio. This kind of thing would an ideal front for foreign agents and the like to get together, thought Ryan. Something this boring would never run any risk of random members of the public wandering in, and the Guards would never think of sticking their thick heads anywhere near a festival of unlistenable hippy music. It really was perfect, thought Ryan – except that the Chief had seen through the plans of these enemies of the nation.

Did these musicians even exist? Ryan went back to the Internet and searched for this Nuada group. After wading through several pages dealing with terrifying Jim Fitzpatrick art, he found that, yes, there was actually a group called Nuada and that they did seem to be the people in the grainy photograph. Or, at least, there was a website run by people calling themselves Nuada on which they claimed to be a group of musicians. But, again, that could all be a front as well. That was the thing with subversives and foreign agents. When they created a false identity they would go to great lengths to make it look as real and as thorough as possible.

Ryan then searched for the festival this Nuada group were purportedly playing at. It seemed to exist, in that it too had a website and there were various other references to it on the Internet. Not too many, mind, but then it was purporting to be a small-scale event. Everything was consistent with it having been an actual event that had recently taken place. The enemy was clever. A fake band with a fake website playing at a fake festival, with everything set up to look like it was not fake at all but real, as real as the Organisation Ryan worked for.

But then Ryan stopped. The Organisation was not real, at least not in the sense that it had any presence on the web or that anyone outside of its corridors had ever heard of it. Maybe they were going about things the wrong way. If they wanted to be really secret, perhaps they should put up a billboard advertising the Organisation outside their headquarters and set up a flash website with a mission statement and a listing of personnel. That would throw the Opposition off the sent. Ryan would have to suggest this to the Chief.

The thought distracted Ryan. He started looking on the Internet for the websites of the Organisation's analogues in other countries. What could be discerned from them? Was there a pattern to how they used a public presence to mask their real purpose?


E-mail me if you would like to read the rest of this masterpiece.

My German Friend - Chapter 1

This is the unedited first chapter of my unsuccessful NaNoWriMo attempt in 2010. I managed a mere 10901 words in that year. Perhaps one day I will go back and bring the story to its conclusion.

I was born in the town of N---, in an eastern county, in the year 18--. My childhood was happy, or at least so it was for the first years of my life. My mother was strict but clearly doted on me, her eldest son and the first of her children. My father was engaged in business endeavours which often took him away from home, but when he was at home he shamelessly indulged me and my younger brothers and sisters. We wanted for nothing. I cannot in all truth say that we were among the very wealthiest people in the land, or even that my father even approximated to being an entrepreneur of the very first rank. However, his success at his commercial endeavours meant that we enjoyed a very comfortable mode of living. We lived in a fine house, waited upon by the most polite and charming of servants, slept in the most comfortable of beds and always ate the healthiest and heartiest of foods. We were not of the class of people that sends their sons to public school, but I was enrolled in the prestigious local grammar school, were I was receiving a firm grounding in all the arts and sciences that would equip me to acquit myself in the adult world as a true gentleman. As I walked home from school each day with my books, the old men would point me out and say "Why look, there goes young Master Maurice, the son of Mr B---", nodding approvingly to their fellows, for the manifest accomplishments of my father meant that he and our family was held in universally high regard throughout our town.

This, then, was the idyll in which I lived as a child on the first steps towards becoming a young man. But alas, it was not to last. As must already have occurred to many of my readers, a terrible reversal in the fortunes of our family occurred. And worse, the change was not gradual, but shockingly abrupt. I remember as vividly as though it was yesterday (though I would give anything, even my very soul, to forget) the day on which my father called us, his children, into the study, saying, in a grave tone of voice the like of which we had never before heard from him, that he had news to impart to us. My mother sat there, her face pale and her eyes already red from crying – she had been told before us what we were now to learn.

"My dear children", began my father, in a weak faltering voice, his hand displaying a tremor that he tried to disguise by firmly gripping the back of a chair against which he was standing, "I have always attempted to instill in you the importance of behaving at all times in a manner conforming to the very highest standards of morality. Would that I had followed my own precepts! I have been a d---d fool!" As can be imagined, we children started on hearing our father utter this profanity, a word of a type that would never normally make its way into his lexicon of common usage. Undaunted, he continued: "Everything I have done, I have done for you and your dear mother. But it has not been enough. Worse, the things I have done have not always been such that I could proudly stand over them. Neither have they ultimately yielded such worldly successes that we can continue to reap the benefits of sin and live in the lives to which we have become accustomed. Alas – I have abandoned the path of righteousness without even being able to enjoy the worldly blessings that should go with embarking on the roadway of damnation.

"But I am sure you do not understand me. Of course, you are my children – my dear children – too young to comprehend the full enormity of what I speak. Very well, I will try and say it all in less florid terms, and even if you do not grasp fully what I am saying, try to retain it in your mind, so that when you are older the spectre of my terrible mistakes still stands in front of you, warning you not to repeat them. And let me tell you simply the truth – my business affairs have miscarried. They were built on sound foundations, but I became more ambitious, overstretching myself beyond what even I, with my prodigious abilities, could achieve. When I began to realise that fortune was turning against me, I should have let my endeavours fall back to their due level, even at the cost of seeing our living becoming less grand than it had become. But no, instead I borrowed money to maintain the outward appearance of success. And I borrowed from everyone – from the banks, from private investors, even, God help me, from my family members and my own brothers. I took their money in the desperate hope that the addition of further capital into my projects would mean that at last the great endeavours in which I was engaged would finally bear fruit. Yet I was not a fool, for all that I have acted like one. I knew that there was by now no hope of success. My God strike me dead, but I took their money, knowing that they would never see it again. They entrusted me with their life savings, and I took them on the road to damnation with me".

My father was crying now. I had never seen him cry before, and would never see him do so again. The experience was most shocking. My youngest sister herself now started sobbing quietly. I remained firm, as though I felt that as the eldest I should show some example to the rest, to not give in to the emotions raging through my breast. In truth, though, my soul was too shaken for me be able to display any emotion. I could barely make sense of what I was hearing, and was too numb to give myself over to any emotional display.

Yet my father continued. "Do you understand me, children? My business affairs have completely miscarried. I have lost everything I own. My swarming creditors will soon be upon us to take possession of this house – our home, your home – and everything in it. We are destitute now. My debts greatly outreach everything I own, even including the goods and properties tied up in the business. I will be carted off unceremoniously to the debtor's prison, where, I do not doubt, I will spend the rest of my days. But there are worse things than failure, children. Were I simply to have failed in my own endeavours, I would still be able to look people in the face honestly and say 'Yes, I failed, but I failed because I tried'. I could say that to them even if, God help me, even if I had brought destitution on you all. But for me now it is worse, far worse. I have not just brought ruination on myself, on us, but on everyone who knows and trusts me. People will look at me and say 'There he is, the nice fellow who pauperised his brothers, who took the last pennies from his aged aunts and uncles and squandered them on his ridiculous schemes'. I have not just lost my wealth and standing in society, I have lost my good name, and with it my very soul".

This last histrionic point seemed to give my father a certain renewed steadiness of purpose. "And so we must turn to the practicalities of the situation. I will go to the debtor's jail, but what of you all? I have brought ruination on my brothers, and even on the family of your poor mother, so they will be unable to help you even if they wanted to. Alas, I will have to scatter you to the four winds, entrusting you separately to the care of the few of my distant cousins that I forbeared from ensnaring in my schemes. I would love to say that I protected them out of a fear that I might one day have to throw myself on their mercy to keep you from the Poor House. But alas, it is not so; rather, these distant relatives are all too impoverished to have any funds that I could have used to delay commercial disaster, which is why you will have to be separated when you go to them – they are barely able to support themselves, and taking in even one of you little ones will stretch them near to breaking point. But maybe you will learn more from their honest poverty than from my false wealth. Your poor mother, meanwhile, will have to enter into employment as a governess to some great family.

"Banishment to the impoverished extremities of my extended family will be your fate – or rather the fate of all of you bar one. Maurice", he said, addressing me, "You are a degree older than the others, and although you were until today still in education, you are of an age when you can begin to undertake manly duties. With my ruination, your academic education must now cease, but I have managed to make other arrangements for you. There is one of my old associates in commerce who has made a good success of himself. He always preferred to invest his savings in his own enterprises, and so politely declined to throw his money into my hungry maw. Accordingly, he is still in a position to be able to help us, and he stills bear me an affection from our younger days that means he is willing to lend me some assistance. John, I have persuaded Mr Halford to take you on as a clerk in his enterprise. Let us hope that there you can learn to make your living in an honest manner".

My father did not say much more. The next day I left our home, travelling to Brimingham to commence my position with Mr Halford's enterprise. I never saw my father again.



So, how was it that I was unable to win NaNoWriMo in 2010, after this auspicious beginning? There were a couple of reasons. I turned out to be unexpectedly busy at work that November, or much busier than I had been in 2008 when I easily won NaNoWriMo. For another, November 2010 was when the Irish economy really went down the plughole; as representatives of the IMF arrived to make us an offer we could not refuse things assumed a pre-apocalyptic air now hard to imagine, and I found it hard to concentrate on anything so trivial as speed-writing fiction when there seemed every possibility that I would be destitute in a couple of weeks time. But a big problem was that writing in this kind of faux 19th century style proved a lot more difficult than I had initially imagined. I could not just churn this stuff out and had to take time to ensure that that narratorial voice did not drift away into a more modern cadence.

If anyone was really interested I could give you a PDF of the rest of what I wrote that year, though I must warn you that it does trail off a good bit before the story properly commences.

Furry Folk - Chapter 1

This is the first chapter of my successful NaNoWriMo attempt from 2008. I am always planning to go back and revise this into something more like a real novel, as I am fond of it.

Jack Devlin was drunk. When some people get drunk, they become violent, combative, and argumentative. Jack, though, just became talkative and over-friendly.

"So yeah, how is business going for you at the moment?"

"It has been better", replied his taxi driver. "People do not take so many cab trips now".

"Yeah yeah, the economic situation. It's not holding me back! I've just closed a big case. I'm a private investigator, you know? It's not as exciting as it sounds, all insurance scams and taking money from saps whose wife is getting it on with their best friend. It was a bit of that this time. This guy, he thought his wife was seeing someone else… turned out she was seeing half of Dublin. Jesus, I might be in with a chance with her myself. She's a really fine looking woman… great pair of tubridies… ". He trailed off in silent contemplation. And then: "Maybe I should give her a ring – I've got her number!"

The taxi driver made no reply while Devlin fumbled for his mobile and keyed in the numbers. The phone went straight to voicemail, unsurprisingly given the lateness of the hour.

"Hi! Yeah, how are you? Listen, you don't know me, but I was wondering if you might fancy meeting up for a meal or a drink or something, taking it from there, you know, seeing where it goes. The Korean places on Parnell Street, they're good crack, not too expensive, and you can do a it of karaoke afterwards, puts you in an excitable frame of mind, see what happens… what do you – ".

The voicemail's closing beep cut him off. Devlin started to imagine the woman disrobing in front of him, but then he remembered where he was and started to engage the taxi driver again.

"Hey, have you ever seen Taxi Driver? I've always wondered whether you guys watch it".

"Oh yes, it is very good. That Danny De Vito, he is a very funny man".

"I think that's the TV series you're thinking of. I mean the film, with Robet De Niro. You know, 'Are you talkin' to me?' and all that".

"Is Marilou Henner in it? She is very beautiful lady".

"No, but they had yer one from Moonlighting. But the film isn't the same, it's about this guy who drives taxis, and he is a Vietnam vet, and he turns into a bit of a psycho".

"That does not sound as good as the TV programme. It was very popular in my country. Seeing it made me decide to come here and become a taxi driver".

"But it's set in New York…"

"It's all the same".

Devlin looked out the window. Where was he? How long had he been in this cab? Where was he going?

"Eh, is this the way to Rathgar?"

"Ah yes, short cut, avoiding congestion".

A few minutes later Devlin was outside his apartment building. Thirty five Euro seemed a bit steep for the fare, though he was not really in a position to argue.

There was a guy in a white tracksuit and a shifty looking moustache loitering near the front door of Devlin's apartment, who now started trying to engage him in conversation. Devlin ignored him, opening the door as quickly as he could, tense in case he would suddenly have to fight for his life. "Here bud! Come here! I got something for you, Mr Devlin", but the slamming of the door drowned out his words. Devlin found himself wondering how the skanger knew his name, but did not dwell on this mystery. His bed was calling him, and that is where he soon found himself.

Devlin slept late the next day. After a leisurely breakfast he rolled into the office, said hello to his floor's receptionist and buried himself in some of the paperwork he needed to catch up on. Distraction soon set in, and he found himself checking webmail and reigniting a frank online discussion on the relative merits of the different Indiana Jones films. And then his phone rang, he answered a call from his receptionist, and his day changed course alarmingly.

"Mr Devlin, there's a… a Panda here to see you", said his receptionist.

"A Panda, Jane?"

"Well, not an actual Panda. That would be weird. What I mean is, there is a guy in a panda-suit here to see you."

"OK, it takes all sorts, show the fucker in".

And so Devlin found himself ushering a somewhat chubby looking man in a panda-suit into his office. "Please do not take offense, Mr Devlin, if I decline to shake your hand", began the visitor, speaking in a deliberate and distinguished voice that suggested time spent studying art history in Trinity College Dublin. "Incorrect assumptions about pandas abound in this age of debased culture, and one of the most pernicious is that pandas crave nothing more than physical contact with complete strangers. Hence the propensity for people to try to give me hugs" (at this he shuddered) "when we have barely been introduced. The truth is, Mr Devlin, that I loathe physical contact of any sort with any but my own kind, and even then only after a long and extensive courtship. Even a touch of the hand is something that I find rather disgusting, especially with a – with a person such as yourself".

"Sure, sure, no hand-shakes, I get the idea", said Devlin as he ushered the Panda into a seat into which he was barely able to squeeze. "So, what can I do for you, Mr…? Someone been at your bamboo?"

"Very droll, Mr Devlin, I see your reputation as something of a humorist is well deserved. I am not, however, in a situation where jokes are of much assistance. And you can call me Mr Chubbytail".

"I take it that's not the name on your birth cert?"

"No sir, it is not, but if you are asking whether it is my real name then I can assure you that it is. I changed my name by deed poll five years ago when I adopted this persona. Mr Chubbytail is the only name by which I am known".

"No first name?"

"I have no need of such a thing. In formal situations Mr Chubbytail is perfectly appropriate, while in more intimate company the mister can be dropped and I become simply Chubbytail. But, Mr Devlin, this is not an intimate encounter, and all this talk is taking time away from more important matters".

"Sure, you'll have to forgive me if my normal professionalism lapses. I've never had a guy in a panda-suit in my office before, so – "

"Mr Devlin", interrupted Mr Chubbytail icily, "Please do not under any circumstances ever refer to my skin as a panda-suit. It is not something I take off and put on at will, but an intrinsic part of what I am".

"Sorry! Jesus, look, this is all new to me, don't take it the wrong way if I make a wrong step. Let's start again. What has led to you requiring the services of a private investigator, and what has brought you to me?"

"Well Mr Devlin, I can answer the second part first. I was given your name by an associate, who recommended you as someone who can deal with the most sensitive matters with the necessary tact and discretion. He warned me of your less appealing personal qualities, but he made clear that you were the kind of fellow who can accomplish wonders, and all at a highly competitive price".

"I aim to please".

"And as to what brings me here – well surely you can guess. I mentioned that I loathe physical contact with any save my own kind, and even then a courtship that your sort would find unacceptably lengthy is necessary. Now, after years of disappointment, I had found a mate, a most delightful lady Panda called Miss Cuddlebuns. The more we came to know each other, the more in love we grew. Last year we took the logical next step – Miss Cuddlebuns became Mrs Chubbytail. Yes, Mr Devlin, we got married. Marriage is not just for your kind, but for ours as well".

"Well, I've no problem with that, take love where you find it and all that".

"My mate and I set up home together. Our life was one of unremitting joy. We looked forward to the day when we would be blessed with offspring, when our house would echo to the sounds of little Panda cubs gambolling around. But that… that was then. Things are different now". A hesitation crept into his voice, but he forced himself to continue.

"Last Tuesday, I arrived home from the office to find that my wife had gone. She had left me a note – and her skin. Mr Devlin, she is a Panda no more".

"I see. Do you have the note with you?"

Mr Chubbytail's suit seemed to come equipped with pockets, and from one of these he produced a piece of paper and began to read. "'My dear husband. This is the hardest letter I will ever have to write. I love you, and I always will, but all this time I have been with you, I have been living a lie. I have tried to deny it, but I can do so no longer. Chubbytail, I am not really a Panda'", and at this a choking quality came into the Panda's voice, as his black-eared head slouched forward. "'I am a human being. I belong with my own kind. I must leave you now. We must never see each other again. I hope one day you will find yourself a good lady Panda, god knows you deserve it. Yours with eternal affection, Laura'. Do you see Mr Devlin, she didn't even sign the letter with her real name?"

At this Mr Chubbytail broke down into tears, sobs causing his black and white frame to convulse. Devlin jumped up and was about to give him a reassuring hug when he remembered Mr Chubbytail's aversion to physical contact. Another tack was called for, so he ran over to the filing cabinet and produced bottle of cheap Irish whisky. "There there Mr Chubbytail, how about a glass of Paddy to cheer you up?"

"Thank you Mr Devlin, you are too kind", sobbed Mr Chubbytail. "But I never drink alcoholic beverages".

"Come on, just this once, it's not every day a man, eh a Panda loses his wife" he said, forcing a well-filled glass into Mr Chubbytail's paw, albeit with the minimum possible amount of skin-fur contact. "Look, I'm going to have one myself, don't make me look like the kind of guy who drinks on his own like a sad alcoholic".

"Alright Mr Devlin, I will take a couple of sips", said Mr Chubbytail, bringing the glass up to the suit's mouth, where a small aperture allowed it access to the human mouth behind.

"Now Mr Chubbytail, tell me, where do I come into all this?"

"Well Mr Devlin", he said, with composure returning to his voice, "I want you to find my Cuddlebuns. I need to talk to her again. If I can speak to her one more time, then I am sure that I can persuade her of the error of her ways. Mr Devlin, what she said in that note is just not true – she is a Panda, through and through. She can never be happy in the human world".

"Mr Chubbytail, I am happy to take this job, but I have to warn you – you are probably setting yourself up for a big disappointment. You may be the first Panda to come into this office, but I've seen a lot of husbands whose wives have done a bunk, and they always think they can make them come back. They can't. When a woman walks, she's gone".

"But my Cuddlebuns is not a woman, Mr Devlin – she's a Panda".

"I'm not sure if that makes a big difference, but look, I've tried telling you, my ethical duty is done. So now let's get on with things. Have you any idea where your wife might have gone?"

"No, Mr Devlin. She is in the world of humans now. Your world. That is why I am hiring you to find her".

"I see. Well, can you tell me anything about her background, or even her real name – I mean her name before she became Miss Cuddlebuns?"

"I cannot, Mr Devlin, save that the note reveals that her former first name was Laura. She was already Miss Cuddlebuns when we met".

"Is that the name on her marriage certificate?"

"Mr Devlin, we did not marry in one of your churches, or in a registry office for your kind. We married in a ceremony before those who share our persuasion, and yes, I can assure that Miss Cuddlebuns was recorded there as her name before marriage".

"I see. But can you tell me where and when did you meet?"

"Five years ago, Mr Devlin. We met at the Zoological Club, known somewhat more informally as the Zoo. It is a convivial environment where our kind meet and relax together, away from… your sort. I say that without meaning to give offence, Mr Devlin. I am sure your kind are happy in their own way, but we are always happier without the snide glances of the furless. That is why we seek out our own exclusive company, wherever and whenever possible".

"So, a whole club full of Pandas?"

"Not all Pandas, Mr Devlin, not all Pandas. All kinds of furry creatures frequent the Zoological Club. The venue opens its doors to all who are blessed with a body covered completely in thick hair".

Devlin wondered if his ex-girlfriend had heard of this place, she would fit right in. "I see, Mr Chubbytail. I think this is going to be a bit difficult. But tell me, do you have any pictures of your wife?"

"Why yes, of course", said Mr Chubbytail as he produced some photographs from another of his pockets.

"Ah, I meant photos of her not wearing the, ah skin, whatever you call it".

"Mr Devlin, what do you take me for?" replied the Panda, with a hurt expression. "I am not the kind of person who is interested in taking obscene photographs of his loved ones. That kind of sordid smuttiness disgusts me". He shuddered.

"Fair enough", said Devlin. "I thought maybe she could have some photos from before she had become a Panda, or… whatever. This is not giving me much to go on. Does she have a mobile phone?"

The Panda wrote down a number on a piece of paper and handed it to Devlin. "I have tried telephoning her, but the phone seems to be switched off".

"Well I don't know, Mr Chubbytail, this all does not give me much to go on. I will see what I can find and come back to you in a week. If the trail is cold, I won't take your money any further, but if the leads are going somewhere you can decide how you want to play it. Speaking of money, there is the small matter of my remuneration…"

That led to a brief discussion of payment rates and expenses, after which a short document was signed. Devlin then walked the Panda back to the lift, promising to do his best to find his wife.

"I have complete faith in you, Mr Devlin. You cannot fail. I must speak to my wife again. Deep down inside I know one thing – that Miss Cuddlebuns misses her Chubbytail".

"I'm sure she does", replied Devlin waving his client into the lift. Strolling back into the reception area he came across Jane reading some celebrity scandal sheet. "It takes all sorts, eh Jane?" he said by way of a conversational opener.

"Yeah? Oh you mean the panda? Yeah, I suppose it does".

Devlin went left her to her reading and went back into his office. How the hell was he going to get anywhere with this case? While helping himself to another whisky, he checked his mobile for messages. Someone he didn't know had texted him.

"SCREW U ASSHOL U TINK U R BIG MAN HOW BIG U B WHEN I CUT UR DICK OF N FEED 2 UR DOG?"

"Charming", thought Devlin. Then he remembered that he didn't have a dog. What was this all about? Probably one of the lads playing some kind of prank.

"FUKC YOPU CNUTY UR GAY" he texted back. That made him feel better. Then he decided he had been in work for long enough and headed out to the pub.

If anyone wants to read the rest of this unedited first draft, they should send me an e-mail and I will mail you a PDF. My e-mail address is over to the right.