The Teapots Are Out and Other Eccentric Tales from Ireland by John B. Keane Page B

facing the world again. For hours he tossed and turned on the bed. Towards late afternoon he steeled himself with every ounce of resolve at his disposal and entered the bathroom. He filled the bath with cold water and stood nearby in his pelt waiting for it to fill. This will kill me or cure me he told himself. He did not ease himself into the water. It might be said that he plopped in.
He screamed when the first shock assailed him. Having barely survived it he shuddered and spluttered like a man demented as the cold touched every part of his body. Despairingly he started to sing. His voice trembled and shook. He could not sustain a single note no matter how hard he tried. There was one fearful moment when he felt totally paralysed. Panicstricken he erupted from the bath and landed on his behind on the slippery floor. Raising laboriously he dried himself thoroughly. After a few minutes he felt an improvement. His head still throbbed but the pain was now bearable. His hands were steady. He decided to risk a shave. Surprisingly he negotiated the business without a nick. He combed his hair and sat on the bed. He had no idea where he was. He was about to lift the phone when it occurred to him that he was naked. Hastily he pulled on his trousers. There was still some money in the fob; he was surprised at the amount. Probably cashed a cheque or two. All would be revealed in due course as the man said. He lifted the receiver and waited.
    â€˜Good afternoon, Mister Bowen.’
    â€˜Good afternoon. Where am I?’
    A hearty girlish laugh from the other end.
    â€˜I’m serious. Where am I?’
    â€˜Poor Mister Bowen. I believe you.’
    â€˜Well?’
    â€˜The Neptune.’
    â€˜Galway?’
    â€˜Galway.’
    â€˜Thanks.’ There was relief in his voice. Galway was less than three hours from home. He looked at his watch. Three forty-five. First he would eat something, pay his bill and then the road. He estimated that a leisurely speed should see him
safely home with plenty of light in hand. He looked forward eagerly to the drive. At seven-thirty as he drove through the outskirts of his home town there was still no sign of darkness. Like the skite which he had just put behind him he would never be able to present a detailed or coherent account of what happened next. He decided that it was too bright to go straight to the shop. Instead he headed for the Angler’s Rest. The place was deserted save for the proprietress Mrs Malone.
    â€˜You’re back,’ she said as though he had been away no longer than usual. There had in fact been mounting speculation all the week about his whereabouts. This had been replaced by genuine concern. In fact his cronies had decided to take the matter up with the civic guards should he fail to show up at the weekend. A skite was a skite but there were limits.
    â€˜Did you have a nice time?’ Mrs Malone asked, hoping that the excitement did not show in her voice.
    â€˜Tip top,’ Jimmy assured her. ‘Let’s have a glass of Jameson will you?’
    While she dispensed the order Mrs Malone considered which of Jimmy’s cronies and which of her own friends she would ring first. Collecting the note which he had tendered she excused herself, ostensibly to look for change. She made several phone calls, at the same time keeping an eye on Jimmy from the back lounge where the phone was located. She conveyed each individual disclosure in a tone that was little above a whisper. Jimmy sat silently sipping his whiskey unaware of what was going on. It had not occurred to him that his prolonged absence might have generated disquiet. All his thoughts were concentrated in an effort to determine the rate at which the daylight was fading outside.
    â€˜All too soon,’ he told himself, ‘it will be dark.’ Suddenly
he rose. He had reached a decision. It was time for his visit to the river. The whiskey had left him groggy but it had also brought a