The Street and other stories (14 page)

“Oh they will, Eamonn. They will, but I doubt you and I will watch it here on the video.” He smiled.

Eamonn was taken aback. “Ah now, man dear, don’t be so sure of that. But give’s another pint and pull one for yourself. The next one I buy you will be in McAuley’s. Only it’ll be Guinness instead of this oul’ bitter, and Guinness like it should be, not the way they serve it here. Then you’ll know what a real pint is. Okay,
Tom?”

“Whatever you say, Eamonn. Whatever you say.”

Tom set the two pints on the counter and Eamonn and he raised their glasses to one another.

“Here’s to the Munster Final,” he smiled.

“To us and the Munster Final,” Eamonn corrected him.

“To us,” Tom agreed, “and the Munster Final.”

It was Hugh Deeney who suggested that the mouse should have a fair trial. Hugh was like that, cautious and judicial and fair-minded about most things. Except women, maybe, but that’s another story.

The mouse in question had dropped in on Hugh one morning while he was eating his breakfast porridge. And when I say dropped in, I mean that quite literally: it fell from the timbers which constituted a ceiling-cum-roof in the political prisoners’ quarters. With a dull, wet plop it dropped into Hugh’s porridge bowl. The porridge probably saved its life. Luckily it wasn’t hot, but prison porridge is never hot. Hugh was nearly as shocked as the mouse and, in a reflex action I suppose, he cupped his hands over the bowl. The mouse, half drowned, concussed and winded, was captured. Then Hugh gave the mouse—and us—a second shock. As the mouse pulled itself together and peered upwards, Hugh opened his fingers a crack and peered down. Their eyes met. The mouse may have screamed, no one knows; but if it did its cry was drowned by Hugh’s long shrill wail of a shriek.

“There’s a mouse in my porridge,” he squealed. “It fell from wahhhhhh…”

The rest of his utterance was lost in an almost hysterical keen.

Hugh’s comrades responded to his trouble in their usual supportive, stoical way.

“Ah, meat at last,” someone smirked.

“Everybody’ll want one now,” the hut OC complained.

“I hate mieces to pieces,” snarled Cleaky.

“It’s alive,” Hugh finally stammered, his hands still clasped over the bowl.

“Kill the bastard,” snarled his bosom buddy, Gerry Skelly.

“Kill the bastard,” ordered the hut OC.

“Kill him,” rose the chorus.

Hugh had by now regained his composure.

“Hold on, hold on,” he pleaded. “This mouse deserves a fair trial.”

“Kill him!” shouted Joe Ryan, advancing towards Hugh and his porridge bowl captive.

“I captured him,” Hugh announced defiantly.

“Captured him!” Joe scoffed. “You’re lucky it wasn’t a fair fight: that mouse would have ate and shit you. Captured him! The poor mouse surrendered.”

He moved towards Hugh again.

“Stay back, Joe, I’m warning you. Stay back! Back off!” Hugh commanded the mob. “If you don’t back off I’ll let him go. He deserves a fair crack of the whip.”

“Stop!” the hut OC yelled. “Okay,” he smiled crookedly at Hugh, “your mouse’ll have his day in court. There will be a staff meeting at twelve to appoint the court. You can nominate the defence and the court will commence proceedings in the half-hut after visits this afternoon. Okay?”

“
Maith
go leor
,”
*
Hugh agreed.

By the time the court assembled at five o’clock, the half-hut was packed tight with spectators. Indeed, the hut OC had to call for
ciúnas
‡
three times before the hubbub of noise receded. Then he informed the assembled mass that an incident had occurred that morning during which a mouse had been captured alive. It
was, he went on, as everyone knew, camp policy to kill all mice on account of the damage they did and the risk to health they constituted. Heretofore the mice had neither given nor had they expected any quarter. Despite this, the comrade who captured the mouse had refused to kill the offending creature. Here the OC paused and looked at Hugh for a long, sneer-filled second or two.

“So,” he continued patiently, “I consulted with the proper authorities regarding procedure, the rights of defendants and so on and so forth, and in my capacity as convener I have appointed a three-person tribunal and a prosecutor. Hugh Deeney has nominated himself to act in defence of the mouse.”

Hugh permitted himself a curt little nod towards the body of the court. The OC ignored him and continued his speech.

“Now, I have only a few little formalities to oversee and I will turn the court over to the presiding officer. I would ask the presiding officer, Mr Gerry Skelly, to take his seat along with the other members of the tribunal, Mr Moby McAteer and wee Jimmy Drain. I would also ask Mr Clarke, the prosecutor, to take his seat, and as for Mr Deeney and the mouse, I would ask that they present themselves before the court.”

Two tables had been set end to end for the tribunal of judges. At right angles to them and facing each other, two single tables were set up for the prosecutor and defence. When all concerned were seated in their appointed places, the OC faced the court again.

“I have to establish first whether the defendant has agreed to his defence counsel.” Here a snigger rippled through the courtroom. “And then I have to ask you all to pledge yourselves to conduct these proceedings in a fair and just manner. This court will be a military tribunal, as befits the status of the captured enemy. Its verdict will be guilty or death—I mean, not guilty or death,” he hurriedly corrected himself. “There will be no appeal.”

“Now,” he addressed Hugh. “Has the defendant agreed that you should act on his behalf?”

“In so far as I can establish, yes,” Hugh confirmed. “And
anyway,” he stammered earnestly, “you do have the right to appoint the defence, and I would request that you do so by ratifying my appointment.” He bowed graciously.

Some of the rowdier elements in the court applauded and the OC permitted himself a good-humoured grin.

“Fair enough,” he said. “Now I want you all to rise.”

“A point of order, please,” Hugh interrupted. “The defence has the right to object to members of the tribunal?”

“Well, yes, I suppose so.”

“Well,” Hugh hurried on, making the most of his advantage, “I want to object to the presiding officer, and I ask for an adjournment till tomorrow so that I can present my case.”

“Are you serious?” The OC was flabbergasted.

“Yes, my client’s life is at stake.”

“For fuck sake!”

Hugh was unabashed. “I’ve made my point,” he said.

“Why don’t you refuse to recognise the court?” a voice from the back called out.

“Order!” commanded the OC.

“Is my request granted?” Hugh persisted politely.

“Well, I suppose so,” came the grudging reply. “Till the marra then, same time. The court will now rise.”

And so, with a great clatter of noise, of seats scraping backwards on the floor, of voices raised and doors slamming, the court adjourned.

“Therefore the purpose of this court cannot be fulfilled unless each of the judges is unbiased and without prejudice and is seen to be so.”

As Hugh concluded his opening remarks the court was hanging on his every word. His submission had been masterful, unusually brief and understated.

“I think it goes without saying that all of us are in total agreement on that point,” the OC snapped testily at him.

Hugh looked at him benignly.

“Mr Convener, have I permission to question the panel?”

The OC nodded.

“Thank you.”

“M’lud,” a voice from the back added.

Hugh faced Gerry Skelly.

“Mr Skelly, did you, on the morning that my client was captured, did you incite others to murder him?”

“Objection!” the prosecutor intervened.

“Yes?” said the OC.

“I object to the words incite and murder. Also, if I may say so, the court has not established the sex of the mouse.”

“Sustained.”

“Did you or did you not, shout ‘kill the bastard’?” Hugh faced Gerry Skelly indignantly.

Skelly smirked. “I don’t have to answer that.”

“Oh, yes, you do,” Hugh barked.

Skelly’s smirk widened. “Oh, no, I don’t.” He stood up and, waving his arms at the body of the court, he encouraged the spectators to join him in chorus.

“Oh, no, you don’t,” they bayed.

Hugh screamed to be heard above the uproar.

“Contempt of court! This outburst has proved my case. I move for a change of presiding officer.”

As the noise subsided he smiled in triumph.

“Okay,” the OC smiled back at him. “Wee Jimmy Drain will be presiding officer.” He paused for effect. “And Gerry Skelly will be prosecutor…” he waved Hugh’s objections aside, “and I hereby declare this court properly convened. Thank you, Mr Drain.”

He bowed slightly to wee Jimmy, who had changed places with Skelly.

“This court is now in session,” wee Jimmy announced. “Mr Skelly will open the case for the prosecution.”

“No problem,” Gerry began. “This case isn’t really about a mouse. It is about whether we all agree to abide by the rules of
this camp. Our rules. It is just an accident that the rule in dispute here is about a mouse: it could be about anything. For example, it could be about visits. We have rules about visits; our rules, not the screws’ rules. And those rules, like the ones about mice, are for the common good. If we go around breaking them just when the fancy takes us, then where would we be, eh?”

He looked around the court for approval.

“Hugh doesn’t like the rule about mice. Or maybe it’s just this particular mouse. We don’t know,” he sneered, “do we? So he decides to break the rules. Fair enough, you may think. We’re all broadminded; easy come, easy go. But just say Hugh, or somebody else for that matter, just say they don’t like the rules about visits. Should they just do their own thing? Eh? Then where would we be?We wouldn’t know our arse from our elbow, would we?”

The court was deadly quiet.

“We would have a state of anarchy, wouldn’t we? And how would we explain that to our wives and mothers and girlfriends? How could we explain that Hugh or somebody else was getting all the visits. Just because he didn’t like the rules! We couldn’t, could we? So this isn’t about the mouse. It’s about us. It’s about how we want to conduct ourselves. And in order for us to do so properly, in a way that makes things easy for us all, requires all of us to accept a certain responsibility to keep the rules.”

He looked around the court again.

“The rules about mice are straightforward. Mice are the enemy. Mice carry disease. Mice destroy our belongings. Mice eat our food. So what do we do?”

His voice was heavy with sarcasm.

“Do we talk to the mice? Sign treaties with them? Perhaps in the past someone did try all those things. Who knows? If they did, it didn’t work. So it was decided that the mice had to be destroyed: that did work. The mice got the message. Youse have heard about the old days when the mice overran this place. Is that what youse want? That’s why we have rules: for our own good. And that’s
why we should keep them: for our own good. And that’s why this court can deliver only one verdict. For our own good.”

As he sat down, face flushed and intense, a murmur of applause whispered through the court.

Hugh got slowly to his feet. He smiled over towards Skelly.

“I see my comrade is taking this a bit more seriously than he’d like to admit. I never thought I’d hear him sounding off in such an authoritarian manner. And, of course, as we used to say about Joe Stalin, there’s a lot you’d agree with.”

“The mouse is a Trot,” someone guffawed.

“Nawh, it’s a Maoist. Mousey Tung.”

Even Skelly and Hugh allowed themselves a smile as the court erupted in laughter. When order was restored Hugh continued his submission.

“But it’s how you apply the rules that’s important. There are very few really bad rules. It’s how they’re interpreted that makes the difference. I’m not arguing against the rules: I’m not even arguing against the rules about mice. I know and I accept why we have those rules. So all the things my comrade said are a diversion. You see, he left one thing out. What was that, you may ask? Well, it’s a bit hard to explain precisely in words, but youse all know what I mean, don’t youse? Common sense, compassion, the right to use our discretion: that’s what he left out. We don’t just apply or follow rules blindly. And if I may say so, if we did the first person to object—and fair play to him—would be my old friend Skelly. So he’s fooling no one with all that high-sounding rhetoric. No, this isn’t about rules. This is about how we apply them. It isn’t academic either or for a bit of
craic
. My client’s life is at stake. Aye, youse can smile if youse like, but it’s no laughing matter as far as I’m concerned.”

Hugh’s eyes swept the court. Smiles and smirks faded before his relentless gaze.

“Nawh, lads, this is serious. Okay, it might be just a mouse and so what, you may say. Fair enough. But not all mice are the same.” Someone in the middle of the court started to snigger.
Hugh glared and the snigger died away as the culprit wilted, red-faced and embarrassed, before him.

“This mouse fell among us by accident. He wasn’t even trespassing. There is no proof that he presented any threat to any of us. As far as we know, he was minding his own business on his own territory when he fell into our hut. Now, if he had been in somebody’s food-locker or among our clothes or even scampering about the floor, I wouldn’t even try to make a case, but he was doing none of these things. So what’s he guilty of? Nothing. Nothing except being a mouse, and that’s hardly his fault, is it?”

“It is not,” wee Jimmy Drain whispered, almost to himself.

The OC and Gerry Skelly stared at him in disbelief. Wee Jimmy recovered his composure.

“Is that the end of your submission?”

“Aye,” Hugh replied, “I rest my case.”

He sat down with an air of satisfaction. He had obviously won wee Jimmy over to his side, and as presiding officer wee Jimmy had a casting vote. Things looked good for him and the mouse. He lifted the cardboard shoebox which held the defendant. The court prepared to rise.

It was then that Gerry Skelly cried out: “Hold on! I have the right to make a final submission. Am I going to be denied that right?”

“No, of course not,” said Jimmy testily. “Say your piece.”

“I won’t be long,” Gerry replied sweetly. “I won’t be long because what I have to say will only take a minute. My learned friend here,” he gestured towards Hugh, “my learned friend here rests his entire case on the assertion that his mouse is an innocent bystander who has mysteriously dropped into our midst. He offers no explanation or evidence for this. And do youse know why? Because he knows the terrible truth. That mouse is a paratrooper, that’s what he is! He didn’t fall from the roof, he parachuted in on us!”