The Boy from the County Hell

By C. Sean McGee

The end of the world is nigh and only one man can stop the coming apocalypse. Shane MacGowan has the ultimate weapon; the greatest song ever written and to save the world, his mammy and Teresa he just has to remember how it feckin goes.

• Language: English
• Publisher: C. Sean McGee
• Release date: May 1, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301060283

C. Sean McGee

"I write weird books."

Book preview

THE BOY FROM THE COUNTY HELL

....or how shane almost stopped the apocalypse

by

C.SeanMcGee

The Boy from the County Hell

or how shane almost stopped the apocalypse

Copyright© 2013 Cian Sean McGee

CSM Publishing

Published at Smashwords

‘The Free Art Collection’

Santo André, Sao Paulo, Brazil

First Edition

All rights reserved. This ebook may be copied, distributed, reposted, reprinted and shared, provided it appears in its entirety without alteration, the reader is not charged to access it and the downloader or sharer does not attempt to assume any part of the work as their own.

Cover Design: C. Sean McGee

Interior layout: C. Sean McGee

Author Photo: Carla Raiter

This story makes up Volume I in the Rock Book series.

This is a story comprised and inspired by working literary covers of the following songs by The Pogues, The Clash, Johnny Cash and Nick Cave:

The Boys from the County Hell

The Guns of Brixton

USA

Fairytale of New York

Red Right Hand

Boat Train

London Calling

When the Man Comes Around

Summer in Siam

Parts of lyrics of said songs were used in the writing of this book, in describing scenes and in character’s speech, hence it being a literary cover.

Disclaimer:

All descriptions of characters are complete fictional representations of the fictional identities presented in media worldwide and no way reflect the attitudes or beliefs of the people who attain these names or identities in real life. It’s a fucking story. So don’t sue me. I was possessed by the devil when writing this novel so I can’t be held responsible for your ill feelings and your hurt pride.

CHAPTER ZERO

Shane Mrs. MacGowan yelled, between every pounding strike of her fist against his bedroom door. Get up would ya.

Shane pulled the covers back over his head and squashed a handful of warm blanket against his tingling face, moaning away as he rolled back and forth, fighting the truth in his mind about his aching belly and explosive head; leaving the black stupor of sleep and waking to a despotic hangover; one of aching sobriety.

He mumbled something that I don’t think even he understood before he eventually lifted himself with stinging eyes to the light bursting through his window, cursing about the rain that was pelting down outside; lashing against his window and yelling at him to stay inside.

Every time he took a breath, he could feel a pressure in his head swelling and receding as if someone had performed some cruel experiment on him, swapping his brain for his lungs.

What’s da time mammy? he shouted.

It’s early and I’m feckin late and you will be too if you don’t get yer arse up and dressed. Yer man called by da way said he’ll meet you down the pub after one. What time you finish taday? asked Mrs. MacGowan, leaning her ear against the door.

Shane pushed the balls of his hands against his forehead, pressing hard and squashing his eyes in little circles as he quelled the siren in his head, trying to differ its highly wail from the sound of his mother’s nagging.

Ah, around one I tink, he said.

Convenient. I suppose you’ll be in da pub till late den? she asked.

Shane slid his hands back over his face and peeped his eyes through his spreading fingers, looking towards the door and the picture of a frowning Jesus looking despondingly at him.

I might pop in for a wee chin wag. Just ta see da lads he said.

Right o. Stay away from yer man, I don’t trust him. You’re doin so grand lately. I’m proud o ya love. Just stay away from da grog and da junk. she yelled.

Yeah mam, said Shane, wiping the frustration from his pores.

I’m serious. Tink of Teresa and don’t drink anyting she yelled.

I’ll do all dat, yep, he said.

Just make sure. Can you do dat?

I will ya, he said.

I left a few pence. Ya can buy yourself some crisps on da way to work. I love ya son.

Tanks mam. Mammy he shouted. You couldn’t lend us a tenner mam, could ya?

The house was silent, only the sound of Shane holding his breath and the light scratching of his girlfriend’s heels against the dining table in the back of his sobering mind.

Mam? he asked all innocent like.

The house was silent.

Mammy, he said.

An engine turned, rattled, spluttered and started.

Ah, bollocks, he said, lifting himself off the bed.

Outside his window, the rain was coming down hard. It was such oppressive weather; as if god were just pleasing himself; pissing all over this poor shitty part of the city and nowhere else, just because he was god and he could be a prick like that.

He stood with his hands against the pane, cursing to himself about anything he could remember that didn’t involve drinking. Most of all he cursed his boss; the baldy miser and he cursed the rain cause nothing on earth had the kind of thirst that needed weather like this.

He pulled his yellow briefs from their nest in the crack of his bum and farted once or twice as he hobbled out of the bedroom and stumbled towards the kitchen, passing his lovely Teresa sprawled unconscious on the dining table; her knickers around her ankles, a needle dangling like a peacock’s feather from her sinking vein and a length of kettle cord, wrapped around her upper arm.

She was a sight indeed, given that she shouldn’t have been there.

What are ya doin on da table? Teresa, can ya here me?

Teresa didn’t respond.

You’re not feckin real, he said, turning away from her still body.

Scratching his bum, Shane held the door open on the fridge and rested his sore body on its old hinges, swinging back and forth and the cold chill dimpled his skinny body. The fridge was empty except for a mushy onion dripping something from it; on the top shelf, to the black banana below.

He wasn’t looking for an old, sweating onion or spotted, sick banana, though. He leaned down to the vegetable tray and pulled out a pair of pants that; for some reason last night seemed like a fitting place to leave them. At eight thirty in the morning and with lashing rain and howling wind; looking back, it probably wasn’t the best idea, or then again maybe it was, but he just wasn’t drunk enough yet to truly appreciate it yet.

Shane left the house carrying the black, spotted banana in his hand; barely shedding a doling look at the woman spread like a half-finished supper all over the dining table; stopping only briefly to collect the couple of coins his mother had left for him on the table.

On the way out, he saw one of his mother’s bags on the floor and rummaged through it, looking for more coins or; if god could pardon a moment from this parody, maybe a few pounds tucked in the nether of that leather abyss somewhere.

He shoved his hand around poking his fingers on some sharp things and some sticky things and he wiped whatever both of them had been on the legs of his trousers as he opened the front door. With wind spitting nagging torment on his face, he drudged up the street with his hands buried in his pockets and his eyes squinting as his head hanged low with his chest perched on his chest, trying to will away the rain with his buggering anger.

He passed an old man that was sitting on his rump all alone, just hissing and cursing, at nothing really; passersby maybe, a street post, himself, who knows? The old man was furious with a rage tip toing its way onto his tongue and barging forwards with a boxer’s dazzle.

As Shane walked past the cursing old man, he was humming a song; not really thinking about anything, in particular, just humming away the spitting rain from his freezing lips. And as he hummed, the old man dropped his defenses, lowered his guard, pardoned his fighting tongue and quieted the screaming child from the pith of his soul.

It all happened so fast and so odd that Shane stopped in the pouring rain and turned to the statute old man, not at all concerned about the rain pissing down all over him, the condition he was in or the condition he would be in. He just stopped dead in his tracks and stared strangely at the old man.

Are ye grand? he asked.

The old man, feeling; for the longest time he could remember, no tremor in his soul and no