I’m pushed up again the wall in the Special Criminal Court’s public gallery, afraid a me shite that me an’ me brudder’ll be eyeballed be the judges.  Da says if they see us, then the cranky ould judge’ll kick us out, not wantin’ an eleven an’ a twelve year old ta hear all about how the ‘RA does be bombin’ an’ killin’.  

If we get kicked out for the day an’ Da’s stuck within evidencin’; us standin’ around on Green Street holdin’ our hurty-handle suitcases; Irish army soldiers scowlin’ out over heaps a sandbags at us; machinegun barrels aimed at our legs; then it’ll be Da doin’ the killin’! 

In front a me, below in the court there’s rows a shiny-backed wooden benches full a Gards in blue uniforms; navy ties pushin’ their sky-blue shirt collars up inta the pink-red a their necks; flat hats bobblin’ on knees; nervy eyes straight ahead starin’ at the barristers in filthy-white, wooly wigs an’ dusty, black robes.  The barristers sit-stand in an’ outta armchairs in front of an old wood table covered with papers, wooly-heads twistin’ ta glare at the Gards.

Da’s down there, standin’ behind the benches, head down, two-fingers on chin, in his funeral suit, white shirt collar flecked with blood from where he razored his face pink in the downstairs toilet at Uncle’s house out in Clontarf; hair Brylcreemed back sumptin savage – it’s almost as if a wee lad on a tiny surfboard could slide over that big wave in his hair.  He’s leanin’ forward talkin’ fierce serious to another detective, the fella as lost fingers abroad in Monasterevin durin’ the Herrema kidnappin’ siege: Sneakin’ up the stairs he was, when the ‘RA shot off a blast a bullets.

A door behind the stage where the judges do sit opens, an’ an important lookin’ little bald fella in suit way too big for him, steps out, hands clasped behind his back like he’s the boss-man for-sure-for-sure.

Davey pushes me even harder again the wall.

The door opens again an’ there’s that rustle a people standin’ that you hear at mass when t’altar boys’ black-n’-whites appear swishin’ like the barristers’ ahead a the priest in his colourful vestments. 

All the Gards stand up together like as if they’ve ben practicin’.  Da an’ the missin’-fingers detective stop their lean-in chattin’, backs straight, hands down by their sides as they stare up at the stage.

The first judge out the door is fierce bad altogether at the walkin’.  He shuffles along, slowin’ down the wans behind him, givin’ them more time to see us!

Needin’ a toilet fierce bad now, I flatten mesell again the wall.

The judges take their time sittin’, scrapin’ their big armchairs in an’ out, in an’ out. When their arses are gud n’ well settled inta the armchairs, then the middle one, who come in first an’ is shockin’ ould altogether, nods ta the important-lookin’ little fella, who then nods at the audience.  Everyone sits, but careful, not floppin’ down onta the seats like men do at mass.

Davey an’ me, way too a-scared ta move an’ come the judges notice, never stood.  We just crushed up against the plaster an’ stayed perfectly still.

Then sumptin’ odd starts happenin’; ya can tell cause no moves atall-atall.  It’s like the sorta end of a funeral, when yer waitin’ for t’altar-boys an’ the priest to come off the altar an’ finally start shiftin’ the coffin off ta the graveyard.

A door squeaks loud.

All the Gards’ heads turn right at the same time.

Inta the Prisoner’s Dock walks two bearded, shaggy-haired fellas in Wranglers an’ rumpled shirts; wan fierce tall, t’other re’glar size, both with eyes down ta the floor.  Behind them walks four big n’ strong sorta-Gards in all black uniforms, white shirts an’ ties; Da tells us later them are Prison Officers.  The hard faces on all six a them tell ya right away that don’t none them like jokes. 

Still an’ all the ‘RA-men are fierce normal lookin’ considerin’ they’re supposeda ben bringin’ a bomb ta blow up a border station in Fermanagh, on’y the Gards caught them drivin’ along one a them skinny-snaky roads above in the Cuilcagh Mountains.

The ‘RA-men don’t pay no heed to no one, just plonk themselves down, not even lookin’ at the judges on the stage.  The tall-skinny one stares at his left hand an’ starts pickin’ at the fingernails with his long-boney fingers.  T’other fella wipes the back a his hand across his mouth an’ opens a copybook. 

Yeah!

A ‘RA-man has a copy with a sky-blue cover, just like the wans I bought last year for 15p each from Brother Ailbe in the school shop that’s really just a narrow-dark storeroom.  As the ‘RA-man flicks the pages of his copy, inside I can make out a rake a blue-Biro writin’.

The ould judge whacks his hammer off the desk, makin’ a fierce crack in the silence.

The Gards, the barristers, Da, everyone goes straight backed, ‘cept for the ‘RA-men.

Nails is picked.

Copy pages is flicked.

Me an’ Davey is on’y here ‘cause wan a them three judges is from our town, an’ he’s doin’ Da a favour, givin’ us a lift home this evenin’.  See this is a strange court that has three judges but no jury.  Da says it’s cause the ‘RA’d shoot all the jurors if they convicted their fellas.  So instead, they have judges decide they’re guilty.  Then the Gards on’y have ta protect the judges from the ‘RA an’ not be protectin’ jurors all over the country.  Our judge has a Gard outside his house all the time in a little hut.  The hut looks sorta like the wan the grandfather from Chitty-Chitty-Bang-Bang useta get inta.  The Gards must feel awful stupid in there, with no guns nor nuthin’, an the ‘RA drivin’ round with guns an’ bombs comin’ out their arses.

We need the favour, ‘cause we come up ta Dublin with Granny an’ Auntie earlier in the week to stay with Uncle for a few weeks.  Ya know, ta break the boredom down in Leitrim.  Our family keeps it nice an’ simple, we on’y have the one a each sorta relative: Granny-Auntie-Uncle.  ‘Cept there’s no Grandad, he doesn’t even come up in borin’ old stories.  There is Auntie Maura, but she’s Da’s sister an’ she has nathin’ ta do with the Granny-Auntie-Uncle gang.   

Since Ma died last year we’re bundled off up to Granny an’ Auntie in Leitrim at the blink of an eye.  Ya get a few days off school an’ suddenly Auntie’s brown FIAT 127 is outside the door, an’ you’re driven away.  ‘Cept now Auntie’s in hospital herself.  Here in Dublin, in wan a them big extra-confusin’ hospitals. 

Never would have thought that. 

Granny’s as ould as rocks, ya’d a thought she’d be next for a hospital bed or Uncle; sure he smokes like a chimney an’ the veins in his forehead do get blueish-thick when he’s mad, which is most of the time.  But with Aunty suddenly in hospital, Granny too ould an’ Uncle too busy priestin’ an’ smokin’, somehow we have ta get home fast. 

Lucky Da wasn’t evidencin’ above in the Special Criminal Court an’ the Castlebar judge said he’d give us a lift home.  See he’s a big blue shirt, the judge that is, or at least that’s what the lads say.  I don’t really understan’ what all the teams are in politics, but mostly it’s the Fine Gael blue shirts against the kinda-sorta green Fianna Fallers; not green like Greenpeace green, but green like “The Four Green Fields” I…R…A green.  ‘Cept the Fallers aren’t really that green, only some a them do send guns ta the ‘RA sometimes.  There’s other teams too: Labour, but they don’t have no colour, an’ Da says they don’t know whether to “piss or fart:” An’ there’s communists too, course they’re red like Chairman Mao abroad in China, but sure there’s only about three a them an’ Da says they’re “all cracked in the head.”  

It’s fierce confusin’, much better to follow Leeds United, even though all the lads support or either Liverpool or Arsenal.  But there’s no confusion with football team colours.

There’s not much confusion at the Special Criminal Court either, the judges, the Gards an’ the barristers are all again the ‘RA-men.  The ‘RA-men don’t even have no wooly-headed barristers.  Their big old wooden table is bare. 

Da’s not just against the ‘RA, he hates them altogether.

“Bloody thugs!” he calls them.  “Goin’ around with guns tellin’ people what to do.”

See that’s kinda-sorta he’s job: He has a gun, a pistol an’ sometimes an Uzi submachine gun – it’s fierce cool altogether.  He’s a detective, but that’s a Gard too, so he does tell people what they can an’ cannit do. 

Anyways, everythins fierce confusin’, but who cares, ‘cause Da said at the lunch break he’ll take us up ta Clerys toy shoppin’.  He never does that.   ‘Cept at Christmas he’d take ya for a look at the toys upstairs in Wynnes.  We march in past t’Irish Press with photographs of English pubs blown to smithereens, up the windy stairs we clop, lots a cheap ould toys hangin’ from wall.  Then after a few minutes, Da gets fake-cross an’ waves us out to wait for him on Main Street.  Wan a the toys ya liked that day ends up bein’ brung be Santa – yeah, right!

The two ‘RA-men don’t seem to care that everyone in the court’s again them.   The main judge, his voice all low an’ gravelly, gets fierce cranky soundin’:

“The accused are running a severe risk of receiving contempt of court charges ….”

He gravels on but the two ‘RA fellas don’t seem to care.  The wan a them is still goin’ hard at cleanin’ his nails; Jaysys, they must be spotless be now.  While the other buck stops his scribblin’ in the copy an’ looks up with a kinda-sorta smirk across his face.

“Cad é? (what’s that?)” the ‘RA-man asks.

“Oh yes, … rinne mé dearmaid (I forgot),” the judge’s cranky ould voice sounds tired.

The eyes near fall outta me head ta hear them talkin’ Irish.  Sure no one talks Irish on’y teachers when they pass Brother Ailbe standin’ inside the school door; then they start noddin’ “dia duits (hellos)” at one another like as if they talk that way all time.  

Walkin’ up ta Clerys at the lunch break, Da explains what was goin’ on:

“Well the wan bol… prisoner, he doesn’t recognize the court, says it’s a sham.  A ‘rulin’ junta’ he calls t’Irish government,” he twist-nods his head savage hard.  “Yeah, … can you believe that, like we’re some sort banana republic balow in Africa with t’army runnin’ the gaff.  As if Gay Byrne an’ the gobeshites like him on t’radio would let that happen!”

He was so mad he said a bad word in front us, so I didn’t dare ask him again about them all talkin’ Irish, but he got back ta it himself.

“An’ don’t ya see the other genius is defendin’ himself in Irish!  Says that’s his cons…titutional right.  Oh yeah?  What about the constitutional rights of all the people that was ta get blown up be the bomb them bucks had in the boot a their car?  Hah, … hah?”

A pudgy Traveller woman in a huge red checked skirt an’ a black bomber jacket approaches with her hand held out.

“A few coppers sur, for the babi….”

“Wud ya get the f…, I don’t have any money fer givin’ away,” he glares at her.  “Get away outta that!”

It isn’t until the toy section in Clerys that the frown comes off Da’s face, not that he likes toys, but he likes that we like them.  Toy shops are the best place in the world an’ the worst.  See, I want them all, even though I know they couldn’t all fit into our room without rakes a them gettin’ broken by me three brothers steppin’ on them.  But still, I want them all!

As always happens now that we’re not little no more, we come out with just the wan thing.

“Sumptin’ for the whole lot a them,” Da says, as he buys a Swingball.

Still, that’s a good toy.  None a the lads have wan.  An’ I can even wallop away at it on me own in the backyard when I’m mad with everyone. 

But now Davey an’ me have ta hide the Swingball in the public gallery.  Da’s all nods n’ winks ta the machinegunned soldiers at the sandbags outside the Court.

“Sumptin’ for the wee lads,” he twist-nods down at Davey an’ me.  “Nathin’ good like this down the country atall-atall-atall.”

The soldiers’ eyes move nervously in their faces, moustaches twitchin’ like they’re startin’ ta talk, but they never do.  They just settle back inta their worried stares.

The missin’-fingers detective has a big grin on his face when he sees Da push-shufflin’ us up the stairs ta the public gallery with the long Swingball box.

“Yer lucky ya got dat weapon past our crack sac…urity perimeter,” he raises his eyebrows an’ nods towards the soldiers an’ the sandbags.

 Upstairs in the gallery, Davey drops his end a the long box an’ sprints past me ta get the least-judge-seein’-seat.  When the important little fella comes in, an’ the whole room goes church-silent, now it’s me pushin’ Davey again the wall.  The judges traipse in half a minute later; everyone stands (‘cept not us, still too scared; now we’d have to mind the Swingball too!) an’ then sits: The ‘RA-men come in, led an’ followed be the four Prison Officers. 

Everyone’s back in position.

The game starts again.

On’y this time Da’s up in the stand.

Me stomach goes sick.

Da givin’ evidence against bombin’ an’ shootin’ ‘RA-men!

The important little fella holds open the wee gate ta the Witness Stand. Then he pints at a black book on the counter in front a Da – prolly the Gospel. 

Da puts his hand on the black book an’ starts inta the whole “I swear by almighty God …” – just like they do on the telly. 

The little fella stands in front a the Witness Box, his back as straight as a pin, face ferocious-serious-important lookin’ altogether, starin’ at Da.

A wooly-headed barrister pushes himself up out a his armchair, ya can nearly hear him sighin’ from the Public Gallery, grabs a piece a cardboard from the table an’ hands it to Da.

“Is that your signature detective,” he asks, his hand comin’ up to cover a yawn.

“Are we bor…ring you counselor?” the oul’ judge’s gravelly voice sounds.

“Oh no, no, no your honour, just a tad too much of the Wicklow lamb at lunch,” he kinda-sorta bows towards the judge.  “It’s very good right now, … trés succulent.”

“Pro…ceed,” the judge sounds all cranky again.

“So, detective Oh…Farrell, on June fourth, nineteen…seventy…five you took this set of fingerprints, correct?” he waves the cardboard at Da, who unless he’s got Superman’s eyes couldn’t see it at the speed the cardboard is wavin’.

“Yes,” Da says fierce fast, like as if he’s cranky.

“And can you affirm that this set of fingerprints, which are unsigned by the defendant are in fact those of the defendant.”

“Yes,” Da crankies again.

“Please identify whose prints these are.”

Da points at the two ‘RA-men.

“Be specific … please,” the wooly-head snaps crankily.

“The fel…, the man on the right.”

“Very good, very good, and why did the defendant not sign his own fingerprint card?”

“Well, … ‘tis very common for crim…, people not ta sign, they don’t want to make things azy for the law.”

“Yes, yes, we don’t need any editorializing Gard, simply the facts.”

“Counsellor, allow the members of the Gardaí Siochana to answer your questions!” the ould judge snaps.  “The court is indifferent to your ovine digestive quandaries but will not tolerate your taking them out on our hard-working Gardaí!”  

“Yes, yes, apologies your honor if I offended the court, simply trying to establish the Fingerprint Card as prima facie evidence … in the most efficient manner possible.”

In the Prisoner’s Dock, the ‘RA-man is fast-flickin’ through the pages a his sky-blue copybook.

Da wipes his hand across his mouth; his head not movin’, but his eyes dartin’ around.

The wooly-head flops down into his armchair, an’ there’s a sorta silence, except for the sound a copybook pages turnin’.

Suddenly the ‘RA-man rifles out a blast a Irish words.

The wooly-head eases back in the armchair, the face tryin’ ta not stretch into a smile.

The little fella clops outta nowhere, an’ stands halfway between Da and the dock.

“Arís (again)!” he barks.

The ‘RA-man releases another burst.  He’s got a northern accent that makes it even harder to understand his Irish.

“De question is,” the little fella moves his shoulders inside his too-big suit, “how de Gardaí can be sure dat dis un…sighened card is in fact de defendant’s finger…prints.”

“Sure, I took the prints,” Da’s forehead folds inta lines the way it does when he’s gettin’ mad with ya.  “An’ I had ta sign it mesell when that fella wouldn’t.”

Another burst a Irish from the ‘RA-man.

“And, eh, …,” the little fella’s neck squirms inside his too big suit.  “De question is, has the Gardaí ever made a miss…take in he’s life.”

“I did indeed,” Da twist-nods, “an’ sure isn’t it only God Almighty Himself that ….”

The ‘RA-man releases another burst a Irish.

The little fella cocks his ear toward the Dock

“Desist, desist!” the ould judge nearly yells, whackin’ his hammer off the counter.

It takes a few minutes an’ a drop a sweat runnin’ down the middle a me back, but everythin’ finally gets silent.

“Dat’s all de questions for dis Gardaí,” the little fella says softly, turnin’ ta the judges.

Da fumbles with the wee gates ta the Witness Box as he glares over at the Dock.

More Gards an’ detectives come up as witnesses, sayin’ this an’ that happened; how they seen the two ‘RA-men here an’ there, but there’s no mention yet a the bomb.  So it’s all fierce borin’, not like Rockford atall-atall-atall.

Finally around five o’clock we’re out on Green Street holdin’ our hurty-handle  suitcases in one hand and the slippery-smooth Swingball box in t’other, waitin’ for the judge’s luvly Granada to pick us up. 

I’m sure the ‘RA-men don’t think it, but the judge is fierce nice.  He asks us questions like an’ as if Davey an’ me is reg’lar people.  Course mostly it’s him an’ Da talkin’.  A lot a times they lead sideways towards one another talkin’ in whispers, fast-nods an’ winks.  

A Gard’s squad car follows us as we crawl along the Liffey quays through ferocious traffic.  It’s just car-bus-car-bus-car-bus-red-traffic-light, an’ then wan eejit on a bike in t’middle a it all.  Da says the bike fella’s “lookin’ ta get a wallop off a bus for a big payday!”

When we get out to Leixlip, there’s another Gard’s car waitin’ in front of a chipper.

“Anyone hungry?” the judge asks.

“Ah sure them two in the back’d ate the hind leg a the lamb a God no matter the time a day!” Da says.

I feel the heat a me face blushin’.

“I tell ya what, I could do with an ould bag a chips meself,” the judge sighs.  “All that rich food in them Dublin restaurants has me stomach actin’ up.”

“Oh yeah, sure there’s the best a food in chippers,” Da says all fake-cheery, though other than summer holidays in Kilkee, I never seen him in a chipper.

When the judge steps outta the Granada, the doors a both squad cars fly open.

He kinda-sorta salutes at them, like ould fellas do when they’re yellin’ “hallo” cross the street ta one another.  Then he points at the chipper, an’ all their faces relax.

Loaded up on an extra-greasy burger, fries an’ a bottle a Leed lemonade, we climb back inta the Granada.  There’s just the wan Gard’s car now, an’ off we go.

Me stomach full a greasy food, the heat, an’ t’engine thrummin’ all send me ta sleep.

I wake when we bump on the bridge over the Shannon in Lanesborough.  The darkness an’ the taste a burger in me mouth have me all confused.

Da an’ the judge are blabbin’ away in the front; Davey’s crumpled over asleep.

It’s dark outside now. 

The headlights make the bushes on the side a the road sorta reddish-grey alive, but out the side windas ever’thin’ looks pure-black dead.

After a while, we glide inta the yella lights a Roscommon town, an’ stop ta let the Gard’s cars swap.

The Roscommon squad car driver rolls down his winda an’ waves at Da, who rolls down his an’ waves back.

“Ora sorry, didn’t know ya were there,” the driver says, smilin’ with long teeth.

“Howaya now Tommy?” Da yells too loud for a town with sleepin’ children.

On we go.  In just a few minutes we’re snakin’ along between the tingly darkness a the bushes in the headlights an’ the fierce darkness out the side windas.

“Did the Roscommon squad stay behind?” the judge askes, his eyes suddenly in the rearview mirror.

“I dunno now, did they?” Da huff-grunts himself ‘round in the seat ta look back.  “I seen Tommeen Ryan within in the squad, haven’t seen him since t’Uzi trainin’ back in May.”

“I think they’re gone,” the judge says, a bit a worry in his voice.

“Ah, d’ya know what, Tommeen probly seen me an’ thought I was doin’ security, never thinkin’ I was comin’ back from court mesell.”

“Oh, Janey Mackers you’re right.  An’ sure you don’t have a gun with you, do you?”

“I … don’t … nooh,” Da twist-nods slowly.  “A course ya cannit brin’ wan inta court.”

“Oh, … ah,” the judge says, the whites a his eyeballs appearin’ in the mirror again.

“D’ya know what … ?” Da says in his fake no-worry, but act’ally wild-worried, voice. 

“I have a Swingball there within in the boot yer car, an’ it’d be as good as any ….”

The judge sudden-spins his face toward Da, forcin’ him ta stop him goin’ on.

Out the windshield, tingly bushes whip past.

Inside in me stomach the burger an’ chips turn ta mushy shite an’ I needa toilet bad.

Clampin’ the cheeks a me arse together hard, I turn away from the tingly bushes an’ force me eyes out the side winda inta the fierce darkness.