Between the ears

By Colm O'Connor

This comic Irish fiction novel describes strange goings-on in sleepy Ballyloo, where two dials on the village clock have any significance: opening and closing time.

On this momentous night, rather than the usual stampede to the pub, it’s so quiet you can hear the temperature drop.

Something is afoot but what?

When Gu

• Language: English
• Publisher: Elm Tree
• Release date: May 4, 2018
• ISBN: 9789082811711

Colm O'Connor

Dr Colm O’Connor has 25 years’ experience as a clinical psychologist, family therapist, clinical supervisor, workshop presenter and author. A graduate of UCC and Lutheran General Hospital in Chicago, he was a co-founder of the Cork Domestic Violence Project and the Association for Agency-based Counselling in Ireland. He is the author of The Courage to be Happy and The Courage to Love. He can be contacted through his website at www.drcolmoconnor.com.

Book preview

Chapter One

For the second time in quick succession, Guard Gerry Berry finds himself staring down the muzzle of one of the most lethal handguns since the Big Bang, so to speak. He peers at the distinctive silver metal as if chancing upon a lost sunken treasure. It glimmers in the faded light of the evening like a twinkling star.

That’s not the only thing that’s twinkling. His toes are dancing faster than Jerry Lee Lewis on a piano. Goodness, gracious, great balls of fire, he can’t stand still. No wonder. Never in all his born days did he envisage, did he dare dream he would see such a wonderful specimen in real life, and then presto - like the buses, it crops up twice in the space of a minute, at close range into the bargain.

Ordinarily, to most folk, it’s nothing special. God love us, one large, dangerous handgun hardly differs from another. But to the guard, who knows a thing or two about this kind of weapon (don’t get him started!), it’s about as run-of-the-mill as a Stradivarius violin. His eyes positively sparkle as he recalls how Dirty Harry used to carry a piece just like it in the movie of the same name.

What you don’t see in that action-packed thriller is the chrome lining, etched as fine as a Ming Vase, on the barrel. This model, custom built undoubtedly, and finished to the highest standards of military craftsmanship to boot, is one of an exclusive handmade edition. He can tell by the meticulous attention to detail. It jumps out at him like a dolphin out of water. You certainly don’t come across such lavish engravings every day.

Granted, it’s not entirely in pristine condition. Minor scratches here and there hint of better days, although not to a degree that would deter prospective buyers come auction time. Timeless classic originals like this are seldom seen on the market. The Discovery Channel can vouch for that. Personally speaking, were it not for his modest Garda salary, he’d have no hesitation paying over the odds for a toy replica, never mind the real thing. Also worth mentioning, it looks much larger up close than in the movies. That’s possibly because while he’s been fawning over its numerous merits, it’s being shoved against his nostrils at the same time. With undue zeal, he notes ominously, wincing from the pain.

*

Not a million miles away from that very same delicate nasal spot, a strange kind of paralysis begins to take root. A warm tingle coils like a snake around the guard’s stiffening neck, where the hairs have been standing on end since he first laid eyes on that gorgeous six-shooter.

Outwardly he betrays little emotion, aside from an arched eyebrow and a quirky, quick-step routine. Yet that doesn’t tell the full story, for his pulse is accelerating faster than a space shuttle entering orbit. The thrill of seeing the gun up close hasn’t waned for a second. If anything, it’s greater than ever. That’s probably because the Smith & Wesson .44 Magnum Special, capable of annihilating a seven-ton African bull elephant from a radius of a mile or more, is still trained, with an unsteady hand, he hastens to add, right between his ears.

*

For the third time in quick succession, the shooter cocks up. First he cocks his head and shortly later his gun. Then, at the moment supreme, which necessitates nothing more than giving the trigger a gentle squeeze, he cocks up again. His hand, he realizes, is as frozen as his crooked smile; too numb to move. He exhales his frustration with a loud grunt. All at once a powerful whiff of alcohol strikes Gerry like a blast of poisonous gas. As if his nostrils didn’t have enough to deal with. He tries to stave off the smell, but to no avail.

‘Boy, are you loaded!’ he comments, wrinkling his nose.

The shooter glares at him but says nothing. He can accept the guard’s folly of speaking his mind without stopping to think. Often dumb things are said under pressure or, like now, when the speaker is in mortal danger and feels he has nothing left to lose. It’s a well-known phenomenon. A last hurrah of middle-finger contempt before capitulating to the approaching bullet.

The shooter can overlook that final gesture of defiance. Somewhat less forgivable is the guard’s little pantomime currently playing out on his doorstep, which calls up images of an early vaudeville show. He wouldn’t buy into it if he was paid! Heck, he’s seen Oscars awarded for less!

*

A faint shadow, cast across Gerry’s face, cannot conceal his true feelings. Inwardly, he’s more impressed by the gun than by the man holding it. To train that formidable firepower on him from this close proximity - practically at point-blank range, infers the shooter needs his eyes tested or else must be one pretty lousy shot, which more or less equates to the same thing.

*

The shooter faces a cruel dilemma; trapped between a rock of indecision and a hard choice. He seeks a reason to justify committing the most exhilarating misdeed of them all, whilst yearning to do just that. Any old excuse will do, giving him plenty of leeway to shoot, but his aim is hindered by wicked demons gnawing away in the back of his mind. Hence, he can’t altogether quell the growing sense of unease and doubt that’s been plaguing him since he started to toy with the idea of carrying out his threat.

Chances are an official inquest will be launched as a result. That’s the usual procedure in the event of a fatal shooting. Let’s face it - blowing someone’s head off does tend to arouse a certain degree of unrest in certain circles. Eyebrows will be raised sooner or later, and not just by the intended target either. The men in blue, in particular, will be keen to lock away the perpetrator, especially when it’s established that the victim is one of their own.

And then the real fun begins. First the posse will be rounded up, soon followed by the subsequent manhunt. By the time that’s completed, not even the Blarney Stone will have been left unturned.

In his mind’s eye, he can see the begrudgers gathered in the kitchen of the barracks, united in their repellent camaraderie! Zealously plotting his downfall over a pot of that revolting brew the guard calls tea. Ugh! The thought! High fives and broad grins all round as they stack the evidence against him like gift-wrapped parcels under a Christmas tree. One big, sect-like clan happily expounding his guilt: from the start a foregone conclusion.

*

The shooter’s own inebriated state isn’t benefiting his cause all that much. Neither is his hopeless inability to read beyond the guard’s innumerable shortcomings. Exasperated, he cranes his neck further forward once more and then leans back like an artist scrutinizing a painting. But he might as well be looking up a duck’s backside for all the good it does. The trouble is he hasn’t the foggiest idea of what he’s searching for exactly. He’s about to abandon all hope of ever figuring it out when, lo and behold, the puzzle solves itself. In a rare moment of clarity, the answer comes to him out of thin air, like a name to a face.

Of course! How could he have failed to see the mind-bogglingly obvious? The guard’s body language is out of place. It doesn’t square with that of a man facing his doom. He should be, at the very least, on his knees begging for mercy. A two-year old child could point that out to him. Instead there he stands, hands on hips, seemingly without a care in the world. As if nothing is wrong. Stranger still, a faint smirk is pressed against his lips like a bold streak of self-satisfied smugness. What’s that about? Does he have a regiment of cavalry hiding in the wings or what?

Spooked momentarily, the shooter focuses his attention further afield, beyond his uninvited visitor. He glances around uncertainly, steeling himself for payback time. He can’t shake off the fear that his past sins are about to catch up with him. For years he’s been unable to rest easy, the threat of retribution hanging over his head at every moment like a sword of Damocles.

To his relief, nothing happens. The ambush he’s been dreading for so long fails to materialize. The village appears to be in the midst of its annual winter slumber. It’s so still even the temperature can be heard dropping.

It seems there’s little to worry about for the time being. Except the principle that applies to normal people doesn’t, alas, apply to him. Rather than settle him down, the peace and quiet propels him into a higher state of alert.

Ballyloo is hardly a beehive of activity at the busiest of times. Every street is a cul-de-sac bar one - the road in, which also happens to be the one road out. Presently there’s a depth to the silence, a muted edginess that suggests there’s more beneath the surface than meets the ears. To compound matters, a sudden faint movement from the corner of his eye puts him further on edge.

He peers about a second time. Again nothing stirs, except the dusk creeping gently nearer, and his nerves – now akin to a bottle on the brink of christening a brand new ship.

The dying light of day must be playing tricks on him. If only the same sorcery could be applied to the dim spectacle in the distance, about as welcome a sight as the advent of the man in front of him. Down the hill, clustered on both sides of the road, are a few dozen decrepit buildings, rundown remnants of a bygone era. There’s no masking the overriding air of decay that hangs above them. Wafts of smoke billow and roll from smouldering chimneys like steam from a kettle, clambering up to the sky before dissolving into the vast, gloomy darkness above. The scene could easily be a snapshot of the last great depression, taken six months earlier.

It’s hardly better in daylight. The shooter’s under no illusions on that score either, which explains why most mornings he draws the curtains shortly after opening them. His morale, never high to begin with and dropping slowly by degrees since he answered the door a short while earlier, is now going down quicker than Mae West in her heyday. If recent events are a foretaste of things to come then it’s only a matter of time before it