Chapter One
Not everybody knows how I killed old Phillip
Mathers, smashing his jaw in with my spade; but first it is
better to speak of my friendship with John Divney because
it was he who first knocked old Mathers down by giving him
a great blow in the neck with a special bicycle-pump which
he manufactured himself out of a hollow iron bar. Divney
was a strong civil man but he was lazy and idle-minded. He
was personally responsible for the whole idea in the first
place. It was he who told me to bring my spade. He was the
one who gave the orders on the occasion and also the explanations
when they were called for.
I was born a long time ago. My father was a strong farmer
and my mother owned a public house. We all lived in the
public house but it was not a strong house at all and was
closed most of the day because my father was out at work on
the farm and my mother was always in the kitchen and for
some reason the customers never came until it was nearly
bed-time; and well after it at Christmas-time and on other
unusual days like that. I never saw my mother outside the
kitchen in my life and never saw a customer during the day
and even at night I never saw more than two or three together.
But then I was in bed part of the time and it is
possible that things happened differently with my mother
and with the customers late at night. My father I do not
remember well but he was a strong man and did not talk
much except on Saturdays when he would mention Parnell
with the customers and say that Ireland was a queer country.
My mother I can recall perfectly. Her face was always red
and sore-looking from bending at the fire; she spent her life
making tea to pass the time and singing snatches of old songs
to pass the meantime. I knew her well but my father and I
were strangers and did not converse much; often indeed
when I would be studying in the kitchen at night I could
hear him through the thin door to the shop talking there
from his seat under the oil-lamp for hours on end to Mick
the sheepdog. Always it was only the drone of his voice I
heard, never the separate bits of words. He was a man who
understood all dogs thoroughly and treated them like human
beings. My mother owned a cat but it was a foreign outdoor
animal and was rarely seen and my mother never took
any notice of it. We were all happy enough in a queer separate
way.
Then a certain year came about the Christmas-time and
when the year was gone my father and mother were gone
also. Mick the sheepdog was very tired and sad after my
father went and would not do his work with the sheep at all;
he too went the next year. I was young and foolish at the
time and did not know properly why these people had all left
me, where they had gone and why they did not give explanations
beforehand. My mother was the first to go and I can
remember a fat man with a red face and a black suit telling
my father that there was no doubt where she was, that he
could be as sure of that as he could of anything else in this
vale of tears. But he did not mention where and as I thought
the whole thing was very private and that she might be back
on Wednesday, I did not ask him where. Later, when my
father went, I thought he had gone to fetch her with an outside
car but when neither of them came back on the next
Wednesday, I felt sorry and disappointed. The man in the
black suit was back again. He stayed in the house for two
nights and was continually washing his hands in the bedroom
and reading books. There were two other men, one a
small pale man and one a tall black man in leggings. They
had pockets full of pennies and they gave me one every time
I asked them questions. I can remember the tall man in the
leggings saying to the other man:
`The poor misfortunate little bastard.'
I did not understand this at the time and thought that
they were talking about the other man in the black clothes
who was always working at the wash-stand in the bedroom.
But I understood it all clearly afterwards.
After a few days I was brought away myself on an outside
car and sent to a strange school. It was a boarding school
filled with people I did not know, some young and some
older. I soon got to know that it was a good school and a very
expensive one but I did not pay over any money to the
people who were in charge of it because I had not any. All
this and a lot more I understood clearly later.
My life at this school does not matter except for one
thing. It was here that I first came to know something of
de Selby. One day I picked up idly an old tattered book in
the science master's study and put it in my pocket to read in
bed the next morning as I had just earned the privilege of
lying late. I was about sixteen then and the date was the
seventh of March. I still think that day is the most important
in my life and can remember it more readily than I do my
birthday. The book was a first edition of Golden Hours with
the two last pages missing. By the time I was nineteen and
had reached the end of my education I knew that the book
was valuable and that in keeping it I was stealing it. Nevertheless
I packed it in my bag without a qualm and would
probably do the same if I had my time again. Perhaps it is
important in the story I am going to tell to remember that it
was for de Selby I committed my first serious sin. It was for
him that I committed my greatest sin.
I had long-since got to know how I was situated in the
world. All my people were dead and there was a man called
Divney working the farm and living on it until I should
return. He did not own any of it and was given weekly
cheques of pay by an office full of solicitors in a town far
away. I had never met these solicitors and never met Divney
but they were really all working for me and my father had
paid in cash for these arrangements before he died. When I
was younger I thought he was a generous man to do that for
a boy he did not know well.
I did not go home direct from school. I spent some months
in other places broadening my mind and finding out what a
complete edition of de Selby's works would cost me and
whether some of the less important of his commentators'
books could be got on loan. In one of the places where I was
broadening my mind I met one night with a bad accident. I
broke my left leg (or, if you like, it was broken for me) in
six places and when I was well enough again to go my way
I had one leg made of wood, the left one. I knew that I had
only a little money, that I was going home to a rocky farm
and that my life would not be easy. But I was certain by
this time that farming, even if I had to do it, would not be
my life work. I knew that if my name was to be remembered,
it would be remembered with de Selby's.
I can recall in every detail the evening I walked back into
my own house with a travelling-bag in each hand. I was
twenty years of age; it was an evening in a happy yellow
summer and the door of the public house was open. Behind
the counter was John Divney, leaning forward on the lowdown
porter dash-beard with his fork, his arms neatly folded
and his face looking down on a newspaper which was spread
upon the counter. He had brown hair and was made handsomely
enough in a small butty way; his shoulders were
broadened out with work and his arms were thick like little
tree-trunks. He had a quiet civil face with eyes like cow's
eyes, brooding, brown, and patient. When he knew that
somebody had come in he did not stop his reading but his
left hand strayed out and found a rag and began to give the
counter slow damp swipes. Then, still reading, he moved his
hands one above the other as if he was drawing out a concertina
to full length and said:
`A schooner?'
A schooner was what the customers called a pint of Coleraine
blackjack. It was the cheapest porter in the world. I
said that I wanted my dinner and mentioned my name and
station. Then we closed the shop and went into the kitchen
and we were there nearly all night, eating and talking and
drinking whiskey.
The next day was Thursday. John Divney said that his
work was now done and that he would be ready to go home
to where his people were on Saturday. It was not true to say
that his work was done because the farm was in a poor way
and most of the year's work had not even been started. But
on Saturday he said there were a few things to finish and that
he could not work on Sunday but that he would be in a position
to hand over the place in perfect order on Tuesday evening.
On Monday he had a sick pig to mind and that delayed
him. At the end of the week he was busier than ever and the
passing of another two months did not seem to lighten or
reduce his urgent tasks. I did not mind much because if he
was idle-minded and a sparing worker, he was satisfactory so
far as company was concerned and he never asked for pay. I
did little work about the place myself, spending all my time
arranging my papers and re-reading still more closely the
pages of de Selby.
A full year had not passed when I noticed that Divney
was using the word `we' in his conversation and worse than
that, the word `our'. He said that the place was not everything
that it might be and talked of getting a hired man. I
did not agree with this and told him so, saying that there was
no necessity for more than two men on a small farm and
adding, most unhappily for myself, that we were poor. After
that it was useless trying to tell him that it was I who owned
everything. I began to tell myself that even if I did own
everything, he owned me.
Four years passed away happily enough for each of us. We
had a good house and plenty of good country food but little
money. Nearly all my own time was spent in study. Out of
my savings I had now bought the complete works of the two
principal commentators, Hatchjaw and Bassett, and a photo-stat
of the de Selby Codex. I had also embarked upon the
task of learning French and German thoroughly in order to
read the works of other commentators in those languages.
Divney had been working after a fashion on the farm by day
and talking loudly in the public house by night and serving
drinks there. Once I asked him what about the public house
and he said he was losing money on it every day. I did not
understand this because the customers, judging by their
voices through the thin door, were plentiful enough and
Divney was continually buying himself suits of clothes and
fancy tiepins. But I did not say much. I was satisfied to be
left in peace because I knew that my own work was more
important than myself.
One day in early winter Divney said to me:
`I cannot lose very much more of my own money on that
bar. The customers are complaining about the porter. It is
very bad porter because I have to drink a little now and again
myself to keep them company and I do not feel well in my
health over the head of it. I will have to go away for two days
and do some travelling and see if there is a better brand of
porter to be had.'
He disappeared the next morning on his bicycle and when
he came back very dusty and travel-worn at the end of three
days, he told me that everything was all right and that four
barrels of better porter could be expected on Friday. It came
punctually on that day and was well bought by the customers
in the public house that night. It was manufactured in some
town in the south and was known as `The Wrastler'. If you
drank three or four pints of it, it was nearly bound to win.
The customers praised it highly and when they had it inside
them they sang and shouted and sometimes lay down
on the floor or on the roadway outside in a great stupor.
Some of them complained afterwards that they had been
robbed while in this state and talked angrily in the shop the
next night about stolen money and gold watches which had
disappeared off their strong chains. John Divney did not say
much on this subject to them and did not mention it to me
at all. He printed the words-Beware of Pickpockets-in
large letters on a card and hung it on the back of shelves
beside another notice that dealt with cheques. Nevertheless a
week rarely passed without some customer complaining after
an evening with `The Wrastler'. It was not a satisfactory
thing.
As time went on Divney became more and more despondent
about what he called `the bar'. He said that he would
be satisfied if it paid its way but he doubted seriously if it
ever would. The Government were partly responsible for
the situation owing to the high taxes. He did not think that
he could continue to bear the burden of the loss without
some assistance. I said that my father had some old-fashioned
way of management which made possible a profit but that the
shop should be closed if now continuing to lose money.
Divney only said that it was a very serious thing to surrender
a licence.
It was about this time, when I was nearing thirty, that
Divney and I began to get the name of being great friends.
For years before that I had rarely gone out at all. This was
because I was so busy with my work that I hardly ever had
the time; also my wooden leg was not very good for walking
with. Then something very unusual happened to change all
this and after it had happened, Divney and I never parted
company for more than one minute either night or day. All
day I was out with him on the farm and at night I sat on my
father's old seat under the lamp in a corner of the public
house doing what work I could with my papers in the middle
of the blare and the crush and the hot noises which went
always with `The Wrastler'. If Divney went for a walk on
Sunday to a neighbour's house I went with him and came
home with him again, never before or after him. If he went
away to a town on his bicycle to order porter or seed potatoes
or even `to see a certain party', I went on my own bicycle
beside him. I brought my bed into his room and took the
trouble to sleep only after he was sleeping and to be wide-awake
a good hour before he stirred. Once I nearly failed in
my watchfulness. I remember waking up with a start in the
small hours of a black night and finding him quietly dressing
himself in the dark. I asked him where he was going and he
said he could not sleep and that he thought a walk would
do him good. I said I was in the same condition myself and
the two of us went for a walk together into the coldest and
wettest night I ever experienced. When we returned
drenched I said it was foolish for us to sleep in different beds
in such bitter weather and got into his bed beside him. He
did not say much, then or at any other time. I slept with him
always after that. We were friendly and smiled at each other
but the situation was a queer one and neither of us liked it.
The neighbours were not long noticing how inseparable we
were. We had been in that condition of being always together
for nearly three years and they said that we were the
best two Christians in all Ireland. They said that human
friendship was a beautiful thing and that Divney and I were
the noblest example of it in the history of the world.
Continues...
Excerpted from THE THIRD POLICEMAN
by FLANN O'BRIEN
Copyright © 1967 by Evelyn O'Nolan
Excerpted by permission. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Copyright © 1967
Evelyn O'Nolan
All right reserved.