The Poor Mouth_ A Bad Story About the Hard Life - Flann O'Brien [44]
I was not yet really in the habit of heavy drinking but this time I was there for many, many hours trying desperately to think clearly. I had not much success. When I did leave it was nearly three o’clock and I had six stouts under my arm when I staggered home.
There was nobody there. The cablegram was gone and in its place a note saying THERE IS SOMETHING IN THE OVEN. I found a chop and some other things and began to eat. Annie had friends of her own and probably had gone to one of them. It was just as well. I felt enormously heavy and sleepy. Carefully gathering my stouts, a glass and a corkscrew, I went up to bed and soon fell headlong into a deep, sodden sleep. It was early morning when I awoke. I pulled a stout and lit a cigarette. Gradually, the affairs of the preceding day came back to me.
When Annie arrived with breakfast (for which I had little taste) her eyes were very red. She had been crying a lot but she was collected and calm.
–I am very sorry, Annie, I said.
–Why did they not bring him home to bury him here with my mother?
–I do not know. I am waiting for a letter.
–How well they wouldn’t think even of me.
–I am sure they did the best they could in the circumstances.
–Seemingly.
The next three or four days were very grim. There was almost total silence in the house. Neither of us could think of anything to say. I went out a bit and drank some stout but not much. In the end a letter did arrive from the brother. This is what he had to say:
‘My cablegram must have been a great shock to you, to say nothing of Annie. Let me tell you what happened.
‘After the Vatican rumpus, Father Fahrt and Collopy, but particularly Collopy, were very depressed. I was busy thinking about getting back to London and my business. Father Fahrt thought that some distraction and uplift were called for and booked two seats for a violin recital in a small hall near the hotel. He foolishly booked the most expensive seats without making sure they were not in an upstairs gallery. They were, and approached by a narrow wooden stairs. This concert was in the afternoon. Halfway up the first flight of stairs there was a small landing. Collopy painfully led the way up with his stick and the aid of the banister, Father Fahrt keeping behind to save him if he overbalanced and fell backwards. When Collopy got to this landing and stepped on to the middle of it, there was a rending, splintering crash, the whole floor collapsed and with a terrible shriek, Collopy disappeared through the gaping hole. There was a sickening thud and more noise of breakage as he hit bottom. Poor Father Fahrt was distracted, rushed down, alerted the doorman, got the manager and other people and had a message sent to me at the hotel.
‘When I arrived the scene was grotesque. There was apparently no access to the space under the stairs and two carpenters using hatches, saws and chisels were carefully breaking down the woodwork in the hallway below the landing. About a dozen lighted candles were in readiness on one of the steps, casting a ghastly light on the very shaken Father Fahrt, two gendarmes, a man with a bag who was evidently a doctor and a whole mob of sundry characters, many of them no doubt onlookers who had no business there.
‘The carpenters eventually broke through and pulled away several boards as ambulance men arrived with a stretcher. The doctor and Father Fahrt pushed their way to the aperture. Apparently Collopy was lying on his back covered with broken timbers and plastering, one leg doubled under him and blood pouring from one of his ears. He was semi-conscious and groaning pitifully. The doctor gave him some massive injection