The Great Pint-Pulling Olympiad by Roger Boylan

Author:Roger Boylan
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Grove Atlantic
Published: 2003-01-15T00:00:00+00:00

16

“Tiocfaidh ar La.”

“Sorry, wrong password.”

“What the blazes do you mean, wrong password? Did you hear me at all? Tiocfaidh ar la, for God’s sake.”

“Sorry.”

The sallow, ill-shaven face—with the glum expression of a churchman, or one deeply hung over—disappeared behind the door, which then closed gently but firmly in Pats Bewley’s own blanched visage.

“Well, lads,” said Pats.

“Well yourself,” said one of the “lads,” Mrs. Bashir, a self-described “Libyan comrade” of mature figure and surprising youth. “So much for this caper then, eh?”

“Not at all,” said Pats. “I’ve a trick or two up my sleeve. Eh . . . does anyone have five bob for the phone?”

“No, but you can use my mobile,” said Mrs. Bashir. She exuded an air of being a lady of many such gadgets.

“Thanks, Mrs. B. I won’t be a sec.”

Pats took the phone and himself away to the corner of the street and was soon conversing in a rapid undertone, with alternating expressions of obsequiousness and rage duelling like Scaramouche and the Marquis de Rathbone across the sagging wasteland of his face. Mrs. Bashir lit a cigarette and glanced impatiently at her watch. Her companions, Fuad and Anwar, two alleged Libyan marine quartermasters in their early forties, conferred in undertones. The three of them were dressed for rambling: anoraks, plus-twos, corduroys, Aran pullovers, cameras. Rubescent were their mahogany cheeks, but it was the flush of health, not booze, for the two lads were self-styled teetotalers to a man,1 nonsmokers, too, and no doubt would be eager participants in such outdoorsy events as Pats Bewley’s weekend field trips, of which the present event was but a pallid spinoff. Disguised as an outing to the famously scenic south Killoyle countryside, its true purpose was to arrange a “top secret” meeting between Mrs. Bashir, described in her identity papers as the niece of the Libyan finance minister, and the Soldiers of Brian O’Nolan, a growing republican splinter group always on the lookout for more money. With Mrs. Bashir (and her uncle, the sinister Iqbal Shaw) championing “new, aggressive, streamlined liberation movements,” it was as natural a get-together as chips and vinegar, or rice and cardamoms. It had been the work of a simple phone call from the Jocelyn Motors dealership in London (Jocelyns were highly prized in the oil kingdoms, where having the price of constant repairs was a matter of prestige) to Pats Bewley, with the usual promise of a 10 percent cut—“Fifteen percent”; “Twelve”; “Thirteen or I’m not dealing and that’s flat”; “Twelve it is, mister”: “Oh, all right”—and the meeting was on.

All morning Pats Bewley and his three followers had marched grimly through the bogs and crannogs, stood atop Mount Maher, admired the famously sexy sheila-na-gig and looked in at St. Oinsias’ luxurious stone hammock; sheets of rain had hardly damped their spirits, nor a cruel east wind their ardour—until now, on a side street off the main street of the hamlet of Crawlin, in the heather-covered High Breaks of south co. Killoyle, GHQ of the Soldiers

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