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 The Most Singular Adventures of Eddy Vernon

The congregation (attending Olive Vernon's funeral), was about to sing From Greenland's Icy Mountains. Alan's and Kelvin's heads turned round so abruptly that they almost cricked their necks. They shared an alertness which had been instilled in them by their streetwise lifestyles, and heard better than average.

Other members of the congregation enjoyed reasonable enough hearing to recognize the bleat of a mobile telephone. It made a bizarre, alien noise, competing with Olive Vernon's favourite hymn.

The first few bars of Für Elise sounded as if they were being played on a cheap tin whistle, and were heard piping in the background of the hymn. It was apparent that this was coming directly from Eddy Vernon. He showed no signs of embarrassment, but of naked fear, like that on the face of a man whose wife is about to give birth.

He threw open his briefcase, thrust his arm into it, and scratched round in it, trying unsuccessfully to put a stop to Für Elise. He turned the briefcase upside down in desperation. The bottle of whisky rolled down the sloping aisle, while his brothers gaped at him in disgust. He seized the mobile telephone, and wrenched its lid open so urgently that he nearly snapped it off. He slapped the instrument to his ear.

"Doc!" he bellowed.

Doctor O'Farrell, Vernon's general practitioner, was sitting behind his leather desk in his Dublin surgery.

"Please don't shout at me," he said quietly. "It is most distressing."

"I've got to shout! You've got to tell me. I must know, NOW! Have my liver function tests come through yet?"

"You've got to tell me, Doc. I'm worried about my liver!"

"Calm down, sir. It won't be long now. The results of your tests have just been faxed through from the lab. I have them in front of me."

"Yes! Yes! Is it cirrhosis?"

Dr O'Farrell felt as if a burning knitting needle were being pushed into his ear. He held the receiver at the end of his outstretched arm.

"I fear it is, sir."

"Oh, my God! Oh, sweet Christ!"

The parson came quietly over to Vernon. The hymn was long and was still being sung. The louder Vernon's shouting became, the more robustly the congregation sang.

"Will you be quiet, please," said the parson.

Vernon ignored him.

"What does that mean, Doc?"

"Do, please try to stay calm, sir. Your alanine transferase is severely raised. So is your aspartate transaminase. Your gamma GT is highly elevated at over 1000. In short, your liver is beyond repair."

"Oh, God, I can't stand it!"

"Stay calm, now. That way I'll stay calm. Your gamma GT has risen dramatically, since my colleague treated you in hospital some months ago."

"What's the normal reference range for gamma GT, Doc?" screamed Vernon, while occupants in the pew behind him, prodded him in the back.

"5 35. Would you mind turning the music down."

"I can't turn the bloody music down. I'm out on a funeral!" shrieked Vernon.

"Oh, I see," said O'Farrell in a baffled tone, adding angrily, "Your liver is a disgusting, thundering disgrace. You should be ashamed of yourself. I don't mind saying so, sir."

"My liver was always good before I started drinking, Doc."

"Yes, sir. Your liver was once as clean as freshly fallen snow on the steppes of Mother Russia."

The beleaguered parson approached Vernon a second time.

"If this behaviour continues to be unchanged, I shall have to ask you to leave the church."

Vernon ignored him once more.

"I knew something was badly wrong with my liver, as far back as St Patrick's Day. March 17th, that is."

"As an Irishman, I do know that St Patrick's Day is on March 17th," said Dr O'Farrell patiently. "What happened to you on that day?"

"I was sick into an IRA fund-raising bucket!" bellowed Vernon.

Kelvin was livid. He found it unforgivable that his mother's favourite son should be shouting at a doctor on a mobile telephone at her funeral, during her favourite hymn.

He turned round and prodded him in the stomach with his umbrella.

"Shut your bleeding hole!"

"For God's sake, show some compassion. I'm worried sick about my liver," said Vernon, his voice still raised.

"I'm not interested in your blasted, bloody liver. You can't bring a turned on mobile 'phone to your mother's funeral. Turn the bastard off!"

Letter written by Eddy Vernon to fool concierge of hotel, after he has murdered three people. (He is a contract killer, and messes everything up.) The reference to a car back-firing in the street, is made to disguise the sound of his gun at the time of the murders.

To the concierge.

Sorry, I don't know your name. By the time you get this note, I will have buggered off out of your ghastly hotel.

I'm pissed off.

I'm a sick man and I only graced your establishment with my presence because my doctor in London ordered me to rest in respectable, quiet surroundings for three days.

You assured me that I would find these on the top floor. Did I? Bloody hell, no! The first night my sleep was disturbed by a shrieking, fornicating couple.

On my first morning, while I tried in vain to make up for my sleep deprivation, a horrible little man woke me up on three occasions. On the first two occasions, he asked me to make telephone calls on his behalf to some other dreadful man about his failed suicide attempt and desire to die. On the third occasion, when I was feeling so tired and ill, I thought my heart would give out, he harassed me yet again and forced me to listen to him talking about his bloody mother.

He just wouldn't stop. He actually thought I'd want to hear the intricate details of where her cancer had started and what other organs it had spread to. "Ovary, bowel, pelvis, liver, brain!" he kept shouting, repeating himself over and over again, using me like a blessed punch ball.

He also flooded my room, I suspect deliberately because he is mentally deranged. Through the milk of human kindness, I drove him to see his mother. I hoped he'd be away for a few days, waiting for her to die.

I prayed that I would have a decent night, but he came to my room and woke me up sometime after mid-night. He was very drunk and waving a bloody great revolver around. He said he was prepared to kill anyone he could find because his mother had finally died, and her death made him angry.

Ill and tired, though I was, I talked him out of it. He said he was going to be sick so I ordered him to his room.

Not only that, as I hovered between sleep and wakefulness before his return to the hotel, I heard shooting in the street and the loud noises of a car backfiring.

I'm not prepared to sit the rest of the night out. I know he'll come back early in the morning, pestering me.

Because you deceived me about the peace I would receive here, I must ask you to send me a refund of the fifteen pounds I paid you on my arrival.

As I barely have any money at all (I've had to spend most of it on my doctors), I demand that you send me an immediate repeat immediate cheque to me at the following address:

 The Sun Inn

 Weymouth

 Dorset.

I am an honourable person and as I have been raised to pay debts when they are due, I expect honourable behaviour in others.

Yours sincerely,

 Paul Jones, Esq.

PS: I have forgotten to remind you of my lineage, incurring my extreme respectability. My mother is a senior nurse who devotes her life to healing the sick. My late father, God rest his soul, was a worthy and deeply religious policeman.

"Jesus, Rush," said Det. Superintendent Rattery, "is there something wrong with your hearing? Check the stupid, little queer, and tell me whether he's in bloody rigor!"

Rush's self confidence always diminished when Rattery was rude and dismissive towards him. He made a superhuman effort not to burst into tears. He touched Chandler's right hand, which held the gun, and found that the hand was tightly clenched. When he tried to pull the fingers away, it seemed they were glued to the gun.

"Well, Rush, is it rigor, or isn't it?" shouted Rattery.

"Yes, sir. It's rigor . la carte."

"Don't be so damned silly!"

"Sorry, sir. In a case as bad as this, we need a little black humour."

"That wasn't funny. It was stupid. If you really wanted to be funny, I'm sure you could have done better than that.

Kelvin went to St Bartholomew's Hospital to identify his brother.

He noticed the high graffiti on the wall to the left of the main gate which puzzled him.

THIS HOSPITAL IS AS CORRUPT AS CALIGULA'S ROME.

He wondered what this meant and was particularly confused as he had no idea who Caligula was. He walked straight into the hospital. A festival known as "View Day", was taking place, an occasion which usually took place much earlier in the summer, but for some unknown reason, it was later this year.

He was intrigued by the stalls which sold T-shirts, with the hospital's name on them, books describing its history, and a stall selling postcards, showing the place as it was a hundred years ago.

Other stalls sold cakes, buns and chocolates. Kelvin felt hungry and bought cakes and buns which he crammed into his mouth.

He saw men in striped trousers and long black coats. He did not know that these men, gathered in groups, stuffing cake into their mouths, were consultants, men at the top of the medical ladder.

He turned round to look at the grey stone architecture behind him. He saw a man, aged about fifty, obviously keen on the music of the late fifties and early sixties, coming through the main gate. The man was smiling inanely, and making exaggerated rock 'n' roll movements. His name and rank were printed on his lapel. He was Michael Rookwood, the Senior Hospital Administrator. He was known as the "Rocker" because he was unable to control his movements, particularly when he was nervous.

He rocked all the way to the cake-eating consultants. Kelvin stood near them, intrigued by what the Rocker was about to say. He spoke with a heavy Yorkshire accent, and never used the definite article.

"Gentlemen, this is a highly important matter," he began. "Are you able to attend a Board Meeting tomorrow morning?"

"What's all this in aid of, Michael? I do wish you'd stand still," said one of the consultants.

"Very very urgent," said the Rocker, breaking nervously into rock 'n' roll movements, once more. "What time suits you all?"

The consultants muttered among themselves. Some of them said their Senior Registrars could stand in for them at their clinics. They agreed that 11.00 o'clock would be a convenient time.

"Would you mind telling me what this Board Meeting is about?" asked another consultant.

The Rocker raised his voice because his nervousness had increased. His rock 'n' roll movements had become even more pronounced, as did his heavy Yorkshire accent, devoid of the definite article.

"There's an awful lot of necrophilia going on in mortuary!" he shouted. "I know its bloomin' rude, but it's a soobject that's got to be addressed!"

"Could you please tell me where the mortuary is?" asked Kelvin. "I've got to identify my brother."

The Rocker continued to rock.

"Sorry about that, sir. Just turn round, facing gate. Before you get to gate, turn left and go down steps and ring bell."

Kelvin followed the simple instructions. He went down the steps and rang the bell. The amphetamine had made him even more high- spirited, and he had a giggling fit, brought on by the Rocker's speech mode. The door was opened by a mortuary attendant who was a temporary, with a strident, upper class accent.

"Who are you, and what are you laughing at?" he asked.

"I've just heard the funniest thing in the world. The Administrator, a Yorkshireman, never says `the'," said Kelvin.

"That must be Mike Rookwood," muttered the attendant. "What did he say?"

"He said, "`There's an awful lot of necrophilia going on in mortuary. I know it's bloomin' rude but it's a soobject that's got to be addressed.'"

Kelvin did an exaggerated imitation of the Rocker's Yorkshire accent, and added, "Whenever the man walks, he rolls about like a ball."

The mortuary attendant had, himself, indulged in the practice the Rocker had condemned. This did not deter him from being angry and pompous. He showed exaggerated, xenophobic arrogance, typical of most who work with the dead.

"Mortuaries!" he shouted with a loud, public school accent, "are places to be spoken about with fucking reverence! What are you doing here, anyway?"

"My name's Kelvin Vernon, and I've come to dentify the body of my brother, Edmund John Vernon."

"Oh. I'm sorry. Let's have a look."

The attendant scoured what looked like several rows of rugger- players' lockers. The room smelt of unwashed socks and formaldehyde. The walls and floor of the room, were unwashed. To make the place even more unpleasant, the names of the deceased were chalked onto the drawers, when it would have looked nicer, had they been typed, put in cellophane covers, and neatly pasted on.

The attendant found the drawer containing what he thought were the remains of Edmund John Vernon. He pulled it out gently.

(Note: Vernon changed his name to O'Cassidy whom he murdered and whose identity he took).

The offices and residential quarters of P.S. McManus, Funeral Directors and Monumental Masons, were overbearing, ostentatious and indescribably vulgar. They had been designed by an American architect hired by McManus.

The offices were on the ground floor. The front room was peppered with giant-sized Madonnas and Childs, their heads encircled by crude, glittering, gold halos. Each Madonna had tears on her cheeks, made of glass, which were illuminated by lights, turned on all day and all night.

Vernon found the general appearance of the place, threatening and frightening, and it increased his dread of meeting Marion's father.

"Come on. I know it's a bit overdone. The residential entrance is at the back of the building," she said.

She pushed a heavy, intricately-carved, gold bell into the wall with the palm of her hand. Two glossy black gates crashed open. The door to the lift was of 1930s American design. It reminded Vernon of the James Hadley Chase novel he had read when he was ill, set in 1930s America. Inside the lift, were elaborate black and gold carvings.

"My father will be on the second floor," said Marion in a stiff, nervous tone which increased Vernon's terror. They got into the lift which moved with a jolt. Vernon thought it was going to tumble into its shaft. He would have preferred it if it had, if only to save him from having to meet Marion's father.

The lift door opened automatically on the second floor. A white- coated, bow-tied servant ushered them into an almost surreal room, its walls covered with mirrors, and its upright chairs made of glass.

"Welcome back, Miss Marion," said the servant. "Nice to see you after so long."

Marion took off her mink coat (a gift from her father) and handed it to the servant. "Thank you, Conlon," she said. "This is Mr O'Cassidy."

"Welcome to the premises, Mr O'Cassidy, sir. I'll have a word with you in private if I may." He beckoned Vernon into a corner.

"I have it in mind you're terrified of meeting Mr McManus," he began. "He has a daunting effect on strangers, I know, but his bark's worse than his bite."

"Just how bad is his bark?" ventured Vernon.

"Not quite as bad as they say."

"As who says?"

"Just visitors to the premises, that's all. He's coming into the room, now."

McManus was a tall, well-built man, aged about sixty, with handsome features, thick light brown hair streaked with grey and probing grey eyes. His voice, in harmony with his appearance, was carrying, and was garnished with a harsh Dublin accent, which daunted strangers and acquaintances alike.

He was holding half a glass of whisky in his right hand. He wore a white linen suit, a pale blue shirt and an arresting red and black tie.

"Ah, Marion," he said, fixing his daughter with his penetrating stare.

"Hullo, Daddy. This is Finbar O'Cassidy."

Vernon offered his hand, but as his host was holding a glass, which he refused to transfer to his other hand, he failed to take it.

"I am most honoured to meet you, sir," said Vernon in a faltering whisper.

"Conlon, give this man a drink," said McManus. "As for you, O'Cassidy, go and sit on one of the glass chairs, and wait for me to come over."

Conlon brought Vernon some whisky which relaxed his nerves. McManus sat on another glass chair, so close to Vernon, it was almost touching him. Marion sat on a chair facing them. Despite the proximity between host and guest, McManus shouted throughout the conversation.

"There are two things wrong with you, O'Cassidy," said the host without preamble. "First, you're British. Second, you're drunk."

"I'm drunk because I'm very nervous, sir, but being British is no fault of mine."

"Why's your name O'Cassidy?"

"It was my father's name. I was brought up in London."

"You're familiar with my business, I take it? Do you know anything about funerals?"

"Funerals?"

"Yes, funerals. You must know what funerals are. They're those ceremonies which take place after we die."

"I don't know anything about them at all, sir," whispered Vernon.

"So, as I understand it, you know nothing about funeral direction?"

"No, sir." By now, the empty glass was shaking in Vernon's hand.

"Have you ever been to a funeral?"

"Yes. My father's."

"When did he die?"

"When I was quite young, sir."

McManus poured himself another drink, and put the decanter on the table.

"Burial or cremation?" he shouted.

"I beg your pardon, sir?"

"You're a slow man, O'Cassidy. Was he buried or cremated?"

"He was buried, sir."

"Sandalwood or pine?" bellowed the host.

Vernon felt sick. "I'm sorry, but I don't understand your question, sir," he muttered.

"Oh, you're so deaf and slow! Was the coffin sandalwood or pine?"

"I don't know, sir."

"What living relations do you have? I'm thinking of Marion's security."

"A mother and two brothers, sir."

"And the professions of your brothers?"

"I don't know. I don't get on with them. I haven't seen them for some time. As far as I know, they're in London, sir."

"Why don't you get on with your brothers?"

"They've bullied me all my life."

"That's because you're a very weak man. You attract bullies. You are slow-witted and feeble," shouted the irascible host.

"Oh, please, Daddy," interjected Marion. "He's been ill. He's only just out of hospital."

McManus showed the first sign of enthusiasm during the conversation. He leant so close to Vernon that his terrified guest had to lean the other way.

"The only people in hospitals I'm interested in, are those I can send a man over to with a tape measure. Did you have anything which might recur, something nice and serious like cancer or a bad heart, that sort of brigade?"

"No, sir. I'm fully recovered."

"I don't think so. You've looked iller and iller since the time you sat down. I could still get my little man out to measure you up."

Marion mouthed to Vernon across the table.

"Psst! Daddy's making a joke. That means you've got to laugh."

"Ha, ha, ha!" Vernon was unamused, and the chuckle he gave was painful and forced.

"I'm talking seriously, now, O'Cassidy. I'm getting on and won't be around much longer. I need a replacement to ensure my Firm's stability in its Dublin offices. Marion, I think, is serious about you. Do you feel the same about her? I somehow don't think you're strong enough for her, do you?"

"I'll be the judge of that," said Marion, her voice raised.

"I am in love with your daughter, sir," said Vernon.

"As well you may be, but you're not intelligent and you're very timid."

"I am timid because you are intimidating me, sir," whispered Vernon.

McManus appeared to ignore the remark, but secretly respected Vernon's honesty.

"Are you prepared to take a course in funeral direction?" he asked, his voice still raised, as if his guest were sitting in another room.

"Yes, sir."

"Good. I'll book you into the Kevin Barry College of Funeral Direction and Embalmment. I can see you're quite a good-hearted young man, and you appear to be making Marion happy. It's true you haven't much of a brain and your reactions are very slow, but Marion has brought worse people than you over to see me. It's time we went into lunch."

The walls of the dining room were also covered with mirrors. No- one spoke during lunch, except McManus. Vernon was superstitious, and he had an irritating habit of throwing spilt salt over his left shoulder.

"Young man, will you kindly stop throwing salt all over the room! Who do you think's going to clear it up?" shouted the host.

"Oh, sorry, sir."

McManus looked at his watch and found it was later than he thought. He rose to his feet, abruptly, without finishing his lamb.

"I'm going for my rest, now," he said. "No doubt, I'll see you soon, O'Cassidy."

Marion and Vernon continued to eat. She was the first to break the silence.

"I hope my father didn't frighten you too much. He has the reputation of being a daunting man. He gets

these melancholy fits."

McManus, the hot-tempered funeral director, had been dead for a year. His death occurred outside his offices on a hot day, when he was so short-staffed that he had to change the wheel of one of his hearses, himself. One of the few members of his staff on duty, a man called Kelly, was sauntering back to the offices after a liquid lunch with his girlfriend.

A wave of naked fear surged through Kelly when he saw his boss, kneeling in the gutter. He was swearing audibly. His sleeves were rolled up, and his hands and forearms were covered in oil.

"Sure, I could have done that for you, sir," murmured Kelly, breathing a heavy whiff of alcohol into his boss's face.

McManus looked up from his task, chewing the end of a fat cigar.

"You're too fockin' late!" he shouted. "You're fired." Suddenly, his eyes widened and he clutched his throat with both hands. Within seconds, he was dead.

Vernon decided to go into an IRA pub and get drunk on St Patrick's Day.

The band broke into a robust rendering of a long, black-humoured song, composed by The Dubliners, about an IRA man being caught with bombing equipment in London. It was called The Old Alarm Clock, and its words held a morbid fascination for Vernon.

When first I came to London, in the year of '69,

The city, it was wonderful, and the girls, they were

divine.

But the coppers got suspicious, and they soon gave

me the knock.

I was charged with being the owner of an old

alarum clock.

Next morning, down Great Marlborough Street,

I caused no little stir.

The IRA were busy and the telephones did burr.

Said the Judge, "I'm going to charge you with the

possession of this machine,

And I'm also going to charge you with the wearing

of the Green."

"Now," says I to him, "Your Honour, if you'll

give me half a chance,

I'll show you how this small machine can make

the people dance.

It will tick away politely, 'till you get an awful

shock,

And it ticks away the gelig-in-ite and the old

alarum clock."

The Judge said, "Look 'ee here, my man, and I'll

tell you of my plan.

That you and I be countrymen, I could not give

a damn.

And I am going to give you thirty years in

Dartmoor dump,

And you can count that by the tickin' of your old

alarum clock."

The lonely Dartmoor prison would put many in

the jigs.

The cell, it isn't pretty, and it isn't very big,

But I'd long ago have left the place if I had

only got

Ah, me couple of sticks of gelig-in-ite and me

old alarum clock.

At the other end of the pub, stood a stout, rough-looking, bearded man in a paint-stained denim suit. He was a tough revolutionary psychopath who had volunteered to take part in an IRA cell, and his name was Dermot.

He was holding a vicious-looking, underfed Alsatian dog by its leather-studded collar, and at its feet, was a large, black, plastic bucket, once used as a lavatory, in a house which had only recently been equipped with plumbing facilities.

Dermot flung a wad of banknotes and coins into the foul-smelling bucket. He stroked the dog, which he had trained personally to pass the bucket round, to collect funds for the IRA, holding its handle between its teeth.

Dermot turned to his friend, a member of his cell.

"In a minute, you'll see how well I've trained Shamie. He's cleverer than a human. I'd say he was psychic. He can smell a Brit anywhere, and even knows if there's blood on his hands, shed with a motive, disconnected with the Cause."

"That's rubbish," said the cell member. "No dog has the power to find these things out. You've had a few too many."

"Why don't you watch? I can prove to you I'm right. There's a Brit I know of somewhere in this room. He's been pissing up at the bar for three hours."

"Oh? Who's he?"

"He's an undertaker from somewhere in Murphy Street. I don't' know his name, only his reputation. Everyone in Dublin knows about him. He was in the asylum, once. He's the man who emptied a box of golf balls over his psychiatrist's head."

Dermot released the dog's collar and patted it on the back.

"Off you go, Shamie. Bring back lovely wads of money."

The multitude of customers in the pub, some overtly the worse for wear, patted and caressed the dog as it carried the bucket, from one person to another, leaving no-one out. Its lean, hungry look, made them afraid of refusing to give donations, for fear that it would go for their throats.

By the time it reached Vernon, dancing drunkenly in front of the band, it let the handle of the bucket fall from its mouth. The bucket was almost brimming with coins and banknotes, the latter amounting to two hundred pounds.

Vernon was puzzled. At first, his thieving instincts told him to pocket as many of the banknotes as he could, and rush off with them. The dog backed away from the bucket. Its whole body went rigid and it snarled at him as if wishing to eat him alive.

Other customers, who knew Dermot, and were familiar with the extraordinary powers of the dog, to suss out someone disconnected with Irish Republicanism, stared at Vernon with hostility.

Vernon sensed that there was something frightening and surreal about the dog. The extra strain he had put on his already damaged liver, caused a violent wave of nausea to surge through him. He knelt on the floor, and was copiously sick into the bucket, drowning most of the banknotes and making them invalid.

"Hey! I'd be liking a word with you."

The voice was that of a man advancing towards Vernon from the other side of the street. He had been walking with his head bowed. He failed to notice the man, and was unaware that he was addressing him.

"Hey! Are you deaf?"

"I'm sorry. I didn't know it was me you were speaking to. Is there something the matter?"

It was Dermot, the dog-trainer, who had come to see him. His eyes were bloodshot and he was hung over. Despite his alcoholic haze, Vernon noticed that Dermot was unarmed, and knew that his anger was due to the incident at O'Rafferty's the previous night.

"I want your name!" shouted Dermot.

Vernon felt as if he were about to fall over. He turned his head and read the name of his offices and that of his rivals.

"I want your name!" repeated Dermot. "I could come back tomorrow!"

"Er, Paddy O'Hara," said Vernon.

"I'm glad you told me."

"Why?"

"Because this won't be the last time you'll hear from me. You've robbed us of two hundred pounds. We can't be using the banknotes now. You were sick over the fockin' money!"

O'Hara was sitting in the passenger seat of his firm's only hearse. He was accompanied by his driver with whom he had an open, easy-going relationship. Two limousines, crammed with the relatives of the deceased, followed closely in O'Hara's wake.

"I've something to cheer you up, sir," said the driver.

"Let's have it," said O'Hara. He was in a jovial mood as so many former clients of McManus's were defecting to his firm.

"That man, who's taken over from McManus, is always drunk."

"Always drunk, you say?"

"Yes. He even drinks in the street. Only recently, when sitting in the passenger seat of one of his firm's hearses, he had a brown paper bag in his hand, which he was seen raising in the direction of his head."

O'Hara let out a guffaw and slapped his thigh.

"I want more stories! It's O'Cassidy you mean, isn't it?" (Vernon had adopted the name, O'Cassidy).

"Yes, sir."

The driver accounted for a myriad of occasions on which Vernon had been drunk, incapable and unable to hold his bile.

O'Hara rolled about in his seat, convinced that these were happy times indeed.

When he and his driver, and the drivers of the two limousines, returned from the funeral, his face froze and his heart almost stopped beating.

His offices, and everything they had contained, had been burnt out. The IRA had assumed that the premises belonged to Vernon.