The Brothers' Lot - Kevin Holohan [74]
“Oh yeah?” said Madden defensively, licking distractedly at the blood on his top lip.
“Why don’t you pull up a stool here and I’ll buy you a drink,” suggested Mulvey in his most soothing tone.
Madden underwent a miraculous change of disposition and lurched toward the barstool beside Mulvey. He leaned over the bar: “A large bottle and a glass of Crested Ten and whatever the good Father is having,” he commanded, as if he were suddenly the one buying.
“You might want … You seem to have, uhm, a cut on your nose there,” said Mulvey, proffering his handkerchief.
Madden gallantly waved away the pristine cotton and rubbed his sleeve roughly over his mouth. “Be gob, would you look at that now! Isn’t that the strangest thing?” he remarked casually as he inspected the mass of blood and snot on his sleeve.
Loftus sullenly served the drinks and moved as far down the bar as he could. He did not like the feeling of Madden lording it over him under the auspices of some strange Jesuit priest, but was not entirely sure what he could do about it: taking a length of lead pipe to a man of the cloth, even one who drank port, did not present itself as an appropriate course of action.
Madden poured his stout down the side of the glass with great concentration. While it settled he took the large glass of whiskey and held it up to the gaslight appraisingly. “Good luck, Father,” he said brightly, and emptied the whiskey down his throat in one voracious gulp. He held the empty glass up to Mulvey and winked knowingly.
“Another whiskey for Mr. Madden, please, barman, when you have a moment,” called Mulvey resignedly.
“So what is it I can do you for?” asked Madden lightly, his humor buoyed by the warming fire of the whiskey hitting his stomach. He picked up the fresh whiskey from the bar and eyed it lovingly. Then he topped off his stout and took a long slow drink, the hops smoldering deliciously in his mouth with the peaty aftertaste of the whiskey.
“Well, Mr. Madden, I know you are a scholar of some renown and I have a little work I thought you might be able to help us with.” Mulvey listened carefully to his own voice, almost stunned by the multilevel incongruity of the conversation he was trying to conduct, the surroundings in which he was doing it, and his unlikely looking companion. “I am sure we could pay you a not unrespectable fee,” he found himself adding.
“Is that so? Now this is very interesting, I have to say, Father.” Madden wiped his mouth and smoothed his hair.
“Yes, I have been empowered to commission you to revise your biography of Venerable Saorseach O’—”
Madden recoiled violently. He stood up and jumped from foot to foot like a man scalded. “Don’t mention that name to me! Isn’t it enough to have that infernal book ruin my life once without having you come in here to dig it up again? What did I do to deserve this? Is there no end to that fucking book haunting me?”
Mulvey blanched under this violent tirade and was at a momentary loss for words. He lifted his glass of port and emptied it while signaling to Loftus for another round.
“A whiskey as well?” shouted Loftus from the other end of the bar.
Mulvey nodded and turned his attention back to Madden, who was running his hands agitatedly through his matted hair.
“I could have been someone! I could have had my picture on the back of a hundred books by now! I could be off in London sipping gin-and-tonics with the best of them! I could be running me hands all over gorgeous women in the backseats of Daimlers. But no! I had to go and write that stupid fucking book! Do you know how much they paid me? Do you? Do you? Go on! Guess! Just guess! Five pounds, eight and sixpence! Five pounds, eight and sixpence for a life! Ruined! They fucking ruined me! I’m marked for life. They damn near tried to make a saint out of me for writing that fucking book! Ruined my fucking life! Look! Take a look at that!”
Madden drew a crumpled page from his pocket