handle the idea. A circus might be my best bet, thought Trick. A voice announced under the door,
"We've company."
A few vehicles were parked out at the road. Trick recognised the hippies' yellow motorvan, the butcher's truck and the patrol car. More cars drew up, doors slammed and a crowd swelled outside the gate. A bull horn squelched and blared:
"Rodgers? Rodgers can you hear me? This is Sergeant Malone. Step out of your house."
"Stay put," said the bass voice, "I'll cover you."
"Rodgers!" the sergeant again called, "Come out. We know you're at home, you have the fire down."
Trick stuck his head out the door.
"What ails ye?" he shouted.
The bullhorn screeched.
"We want you to help us in our inquiries," Sergeant Malone hailed across two acres of rain.
Trick assessed the situation and pulled on a white cattle coat and trilby hat, grabbed a cudgel and stepped outside. He closed the door, muttering to the ass,
"Any jig acting now my friend and we are both down the sink."
"No problem. Just act as if everything is normal. I'm cool."
The jobber took his time crossing the field and his reception party were dripping wet when he reached them.
"I'm glad ye came," he muttered to Malone, "because I want to see the priest right quick."
"Why? Is it confessions you want?"
"Look, bring me down to Father White and tell the rest of these people to shag off home out of the rain because they couldn't be in a more dangerous place than here at this time. Didn't you hear about the devil appearin' at the dancehall above in Galway and the havoc that he caused?"
"What are you on about?" asked Malone, getting annoyed, "What has the devil to do with this, except that you're the fuckin' devil. Are you goin' to sprout hooves and horns for us?"
"Do you see that black ass?" Trick sighed, "Well that's no ass, I'll have you know. That's the devil."
Trick's words surprised Malone.
"The devil?" he muttered, turning his eyes on the ass, "No....You're ravin'...you're dotin'...no, that's just a mad ass."
"Look, that's the devil and I know it. What's more, he spoke to me, and write that down in your book if you like and I'll stand by it."
Blue lights flashing, the patrol car hurried to the parochial house and Trick was ushered to the sitting-room while the priest finished his dinner and listened to the sergeant's report. Father White was pale and harrowed when he came into the sitting room, sucking his teeth.
"How're you feeling Mr. Rodgers?" he cautiously asked, dropping into an armchair.
"How would you feel if you met the devil?"
The priest inhaled very deeply and joined hands over his lap.
"The devil?" he sighed like a falling bomb.
"That's right."
"Let me tell you first Mr. Rodgers that the evil spirit can manifest itself in many forms and we are most vulnerable when we are fatigued, as often happens in certain kinds of weather. Why, I knew a man one time who was convinced the devil was always hovering around before a thunderstorm burst...just like today's weather...heavy, wet and clammy," he smiled weakly and shook his head, "It may be nothing more than your nerves Mr. Rodgers..."
"Excuse me one second, Father, but what about the time the devil appeared in the dancehall above in Galway? Didn't you tell the story yourself from the pulpit below in the church? I'm only doin' my duty as a good Christian, reportin' what I know. There's no harm in that, and I thought that any priest, high or low would only be too delighted to have the chance to go to bat with the devil. T'would be good for promotion and good for the parish too. And furthermore," said Trick leaning towards him, "but t'is yourself that's the cause of all this trouble and I'll have to tell the newspapers and the bishop if there's any damage done."
"For God sake will you stop it," snapped Father White, rising from his chair. He turned away from Trick to blow his nose and wipe his forehead. "Look," he continued, "don't tell me that what started out a wild jackass hanging around the town has...has...has now become the devil and talks to you."
"I will," said Trick, "and what's more...I don't want him hanging above around my house because I'm not smart enough to talk to him all day, so I'm here to tell you that I'm bringing him back down here and you can put him out there in the orchard and ask him riddles."
Father White closed his eyes and Trick thought he was praying. After a while he took a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and offered one to the jobber. He said softly,
"If you don't mind me sayin' so, but I think you are taking this donkey business too seriously. Hmm? You know, the situation with the French people and all that... I know you were doing us a favor by catching the animal...and things didn't go well for you...I know that people here believe in the old superstitions as well and you see, it might be only natural...that you might think there is some...well...evil influence involved."
"Oh?" said Trick, stirring in his chair.
"Yes. It can be a common enough thing...by the way would you care for a little drop of brandy? It will help you relax."
"I wouldn't mind, to tell you the truth."
They clinked glasses in good health and the priest passed an hour or so telling stories about the supernatural and solving mysteries with the wave of his hand. When the jobber pressed him again about the Galway dancehall incident he topped up the tumblers and said,
"Mr. Rodgers...you know...forget about Galway for a while...I think I should call Sergeant Malone and see if we can straighten out this affair...after all, you were only was trying to rid us of a nuisance."
"Sure I walked right into it again," said Trick and the priest excused himself from the room.
Everything was smoothed over in a couple of minutes. Another donkey would be found for the French people if Trick would promise to keep the black ass on his own farm. The priest smiled and the jobber said,
"Maybe you're right Father, sure maybe I was only hearing things."
"Well I didn't say that...what I meant was..."
"I know, I know...sure it might be all over when I go home."
"More than likely. But you did the right thing by coming to me."
The telephone jingled impatiently in another room.
"I hope it's not bad news," Father White muttered with a frown.
The priest had a puzzled smile when he returned a couple of seconds later,
"It's for you Mr. Rodgers," he said.
"Me? Wanted on the telephone? Who? Where is it?"
"Out the door and the first room on your left," directed the priest, "the phone is on my desk in the study."
Trick picked up the receiver and said,
"Hello?"
"Trick?"
"Yes, this is me. Who's this?"
"It's me. Look, I'm calling from the phone box down at Carey's Cross. I rang the barracks and they said you were with the padre..."
"Hello? Hello! Who 'm I talkin' to?"
"This is Hee-Haw. Trick...look, I was just calling to ask you to leave the padre out of this. You know, no heavy prayers, Holy Water, Benediction or that sort of jazz?"
"All that'll be sound," said Trick quietly. If he were anywhere other than the parochial house, he'd blaze the caller from the wire with a volley of abuse.
"So how's it going down there with you? Alright I hope."
"Very well entirely. And with yourself?"
"Okey-dokey. The cop car passed over a couple of times and slowed down for a look. But no trauma."
"I see. Well that's good."
"Yeah. Yeah, and the postman called. Had no mail for you. Footless of course."
The operator came on the line-
"Hello? Hello, Bunowan Two? Insert four pence please."
Both parties ignore him.
"And it look's like the rain will clear up after a while," said the caller.
"Great. Well thank's for callin'. I better get back to Father White."
"Okay Trick. Take it slowl
y. Over and out."
The receiver dropped and clunked against the walls of the telephone kiosk. Trick heard the caller awkwardly leave the box and clip-clop down the road. He looked up at a statue of Jesus standing on the priest's mantelpiece and asked,
"Why me Lord? Why me?"
And without opening His mouth the Lord answered,
"Trick, these things are sent to try us. Relax."
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All Eddie Stacks books are available for Kindle, iPad and other eReaders
— Short story collections —
The West: Stories from Ireland
Out of the Blue
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— Novel by Eddie Stack —
Heads
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www.eddiestack.com
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