"Dirty Larry" Part II

“Outta my face before I lock you up for the night you waster,” responded O’Callaghan, flashing his badge and an ice cold stare at the vagrant.

    “Awl right, chill mate, leave me alone and I’ll leave you alone.”

    Larry watched Thompson turn the corner back onto the main road and out of the alley way. The uneasy feeling hadn’t shifted. He gave a glance back down the alley, to his left, then right, but as he turned towards his house he could only watch as a baseball bat swung at his temple. There was pain, and then there was darkness.

    As he awoke, feeling and sensitivity to Larry’s body returned in stages. At first a searing pain tore through his chest. As unidentifiable an ache as it was, it was entirely there and excruciatingly raw. A sensation of openness tore through his torso in waves, something quite unlike anything he had ever experienced before. The second sensation was one of confinement. His arms had been bound at the wrist, feet at the ankles, legs spread, and arms spanned. His limbs were burning where they had been bound, his shoulders and knees aching simultaneously. A point of little consequence in the grand scheme of things. Then, as he began to rouse to a more vivid state of consciousness, Larry realised that his head was covered in a coarse, translucent material and bound tightly around the throat. His mouth, now devoid of teeth which had been considerately replaced by lacerations, began to spurt blood as he attempted to speak. Realising the futility of his plight he lay there, bound to dog knows what by dog knows whom! Ah fuck!   

    Doing all he could, mustering every last drop energy and clinging to the wisdom of his Royal Ulster Constabulary training, Larry listened. There was silence to begin. His senses dulled and orientation extracted, Larry had no concept of time and space. This having been his original intention earlier in the evening, one would be forgiven for appreciating the irony of his predicament. As he peered with his ears into the silence he identified what he believed to be muffled groans. Or perhaps they were sputtered expletives. Maybe they were thuds and further groans. He hadn’t a fucking notion. It took the rest of his energy not to cry. Then, as if tapped of all his resources, the darkness came once more.

Dirty Larry - Part I

    “Tell me again Detective O’Callaghan, indulge my curiosity please,” rasped a voice on the end of a dodgy mobile phone connection.

    “We’ve been through this; I don’t believe it is necessary Inspector. We shouldn’t be wasting time like this,” was the response of Detective Lawrence O’Callaghan.

    “Indulge me,” the rasp insisted.

    O’Callaghan cast another glance around the dank and decrepit living room. A patch of sunlight glimmered through the venetian blinds while an irrepressible odour made no attempt to hide the fact the room hadn’t been cleaned for weeks. Beer cans strewn across the floor, burns on the carpet, ash and dust settled an inch thick on any available surface. “Could do with a woman’s touch, or win the Turner prize hands down,” O’Callaghan chuckled to himself. Then he heard the sound of restlessness on the other end of the line. 

     “All right, for the record; we have three bags of regretamine, beer in the fridge, and half a ten glass of vodka that appears to have been sitting for a while. Intent to supply is out of the question, appears to be for personal use only,” he recited. “Satisfied?” he added.

    There was a pause on the line, static spluttered as the signal held on for dear life, O’Callaghan growing evermore impatient himself. A moment passed. No more than a moment and the silence was broken once more.

    “Entirely satisfied Detective, it sounds like we’re in for a good night. ‘Toner set you up with all that gear or did you head down to Belfast?” the rasping voice chuckled.

    “Aye Shorty, ‘Toner’s going away for a while so he gave me a fair whack of his stash. Can we go to your place? Mine’s a tip.”

    Detective Inspector James Short contemplated the request. Would he rather spend his night in a cesspit of debauchery or turn his lovely home into a den of inequity? The decision was difficult but inevitable.

    “Sure we’ll start off at yours. We’ll hardly know where we are come half nine, who gives a shit what your gaff is like!”

    “All right but I’m warning ya, it’s been a state since Lyndsey left ma. Cant be arsed to do anything round here anymore.”

    “Not to worry, you can tidy it up before I get round. I’m leaving the office in 30 minutes so I’ll be with you before eight!”

    “Nice one.”

    Terminating the call, Larry walked through his kitchen, grabbed some bin bags and began collecting the assortment of rubbish spread around the dwelling. It would be a cosmetic and entirely superficial clean, but it would have to do. There was less than an hour before Shorty was due round and he hadn’t been fed or showered yet. With the majority of clutter bagged and a few surfaces polished, the room was closer to scratch than not, but the stench, growing thick, was unlikely to dissipate any time soon.

    Throwing the last of the bags in a royal blue council bin in an alley adjacent to his home, O’Callaghan sensed a presence close by. Turning around he spotted a wino staggering by. “Fucking nerves are shot, that aul hoor Thompson giving me the jitters, sort yourself out Larry!”

    “Gee-us a pound mate. Locka loo?”

The Cat Owns Bagpipes.

In an attempt to encapsulate all the qualities, good and bad, of post 90s Northern Ireland, this writer has embarked upon a frenzy of writing collectively known as 'The cat's bagpipes'. From the realistic to the down right ridiculous, the stories, I hope,will allow the reader to understand the complexities of a society coming to terms with the perpetual redefinition of it's national identity. At the very least they should prove enjoyable to read. At least that's my ambition anyway. Whether or not this is realised is entirely up to the reader.

Music Plus Fire - An Unbiased Review ;-)

Music Plus Fire - “Equals Exploding Heart”

    Here’s your starter for 10.What is music? Well? I’m going to need an answer? It’s not an easy starter in any circumstance so don’t feel too down heartened. For thousands of years Western Civilisation has promoted the use of words etymologically related to the Greek word mousike. (Literally translated as the muse)Native English speakers will recognise the term music, in Spanish it is known as musica, French as musique and so on. In the society that houses our understanding the list is almost infinite, yet there are some nations around the world who do not use a single word to define the concept we know as music. This, in all its glory, is my opening gambit.

    Where barriers remain in language and territory, the concept we know as music finds no such quarrel in allowing understanding to flow from every orifice of the beholder. In my humble opinion, music at its purest is an experience fostered with the intention of encouraging a synaesthesia between the five senses. It is the creation of an unrivalled unification of heart, mind, body and soul.

    Now that we have cleared that up where do Music Plus Fire come into things? Well, the link is elementary in nature and fundamental in design. For me, the best way to test the aesthetic value of an album has always been to lie down, close my eyes and see where the music takes me. I accept that this may not be everyone’s cup of Earl Grey and that Earl Grey might not be everyone’s cup of tea, but you get the idea. However you listen to music, I dare you not to be swept away by the synaesthesia mustered in this expertly crafted, 25 minutes short, LP. Whatever the numbers, and we’ll get to those later, this collection of songs has the power to unify mind with body, heart with soul and even cats with dogs if they tried.

    The curse of the perfectionist perhaps; many albums, where no sound is accidental, no beat off, no event unanticipated, have the underwhelming ability to nullify the senses and fail in their proposed capture of the imagination. Fortunately, “Equals Exploding Heart” does not fall into this category. It almost appears as if the recording has a fourth dimension. One that nostalgic music fanatics may fondly attribute solely to the vinyl experience. It is this facet that permits the senses to absorb the strum of each chord and the resonance of each haunting vocal with a natural ease that should be commended.

    The most intoxicating aspect of the album is that it forces you to feel emotions hidden deep inside and before that particular moment had no reason to feel. Music Plus Fire invite you into a world of melancholy and harmony so perfectly balanced that the listener can only be swept off their feet. To be unaffected is to fail to understand life and its idiosyncrasies. Delicately harmonised and supported by a solid rhythm section, the lyrical significance of this album is as poignant and touching to the common man as it was a decade ago. Par example; the evocative lyrics prominent in, but not restricted to, the final track, Can’t Wait To Leave This Town, cannot fail to touch a social nerve and highlight the thoughts of any man whether he be 16 or 46.

    “Seems like you only smile now when you’re high, or intoxicated. It’s not that you’re sad or lonely. It’s just you’re not satisfied.”

    If Music Plus Fire truly cannot wait to leave this town then it will be a loss to all around and a massive gain for the wider Western World. Music this beautiful deserves to be heard in a world that struggles to articulate its emotions. The most distressing or emotional experience for this listener is that he cannot often bring himself to listen to The Fire Inside Of Me, for fear his emotions may be taken to a place from which he may never return. If you are struggling to express yourself in a musical world devoid of true character then look no further for inspiration than this album. If you seek refuge in the compassion of others and the consolation that someone has been there before then, again, look no further. Music Plus Fire have been around for longer than they care to remember and are fortunate to be able to articulate our shared consciousness with a grace and elegance rarely seen and seldom shared.

       

Ciaran Lavery Vs Aaron Shanley - Camden Review 

   

Jude Quinn – Lies writer, inspirational pianist, terrible human being