The Brothers' Lot - Kevin Holohan [27]
“A large ball of malt it is,” smiled Stack. He’d bet Riley ten bob it’d be a large ball of malt on the side. This was going to be a good night.
Cox stared at the small tabletop. He concentrated on the sticky rings and how they didn’t reflect light the way the rest of the table did.
Sip, sip! Nice and slow. Sip, sip! he thought to himself. Only a few more minutes now. It seemed like years since he had been at his sister Bridie’s in Dundalk. She never dared to say anything about his evening walks. It had been tough to get Brother Loughlin to agree to two weeks but he had finally conceded under Bridie’s relentless promising to keep a good eye on him. Two whole lovely weeks. He glanced up and saw Stack pouring the large glass of whiskey. He rapidly clenched and unclenched his fists under the table. Any minute now he would be relishing the sour-sweetness of a mouthful of porter and a sip of Ballinasloe Red Label. He dug his fingernails into his palms; Stack seemed to be taking his time. Cox took out his purse and counted out the money. Nothing wrong with knowing exactly what a large bottle and a large glass came to. He stacked the change in a neat pile on the table and sat back just as Stack arrived with his drinks.
Sip! Sip! Sip! Cox chanted to himself. He poured the porter carefully down the side of the glass.
Stack took the money and returned to the bar. Now he had to time the man. He had two bob on with Matt Lynch that the ball of malt wouldn’t last more than four minutes from the time it touched the table.
Brother Mulligan’s size-fourteen carpet slippers flopped loudly through the silence of the monastery. He stood at the bottom of the stairs and paused for breath. He was annoyed at himself for missing the milk but was glad he had given himself the extra fifteen minutes of the hair shirt and the ashes in his mouth. He just hoped he’d put enough bromide in his milk. Widower Frawley usually did it and Brother Mulligan hoped he hadn’t underdone it lest he be plagued by lustful thoughts through the night. He took a sip; it tasted like Widower Frawley’s preparation through the residual taste of the ashes in his mouth so it should be sufficient to quell the animal within for twenty-four hours.
Carefully he mounted the stairs. Halfway up the first flight he heard the rattle of keys against the heavy oak door that led to the yard.
“Ah! Brother Mulligan!” called Brother Loughlin jovially as he shut the door behind him. “Forgot your milk again? Well, I have some good news! I just got off the phone with Noel Comiskey on the County Council and he’s going to sort out this planning application business once and for all.” Brother Loughlin had not intended telling anyone until the morning but his good spirits had gotten the better of him. “Well, good night now. See you bright and early,” he concluded as he bundled up the stairs past Brother Mulligan.
Brother Mulligan muttered to himself and went back to concentrating on not spilling his milk while making his laborious way back upstairs. The overdose of bromide guaranteed that at least one Brother would be temptation-free for the night.
11
Go away out of that with you!” moaned thick-tongued Brother Cox at the bell for morning mass. He was not yet ready for another day. He still needed time to shake the dried-out inside of his head. He sat up slowly in his cot. Ah good, there was a time-saver anyway: he was still wearing his suit. He wondered to himself how he’d had the presence of mind to sleep in his suit, and then it came slinking back to him. He had gone out. He had gone to The Limping Gunman. He had shamed the Brotherhood, his family, his pledge of abstinence, himself. He was worthless. He was sinful. He was nothing more than a dirty wastrel drunkard.
He flopped out of bed and down on his knees, buried his face in the abrasive wool blanket, and murmured a tearful, throaty Act of Contrition. Then he got up and sat on the edge of the bed rubbing his hands together slowly and tightly. He slipped the belt out of his trousers and swung it viciously, buckle first,