CorkKenneth Hickey was born in 1975 in Cobh. He has been published in Ireland, the UK and the United States. His writing for theatre has been performed in Ireland, the UK, New York and Paris. He has won the Eamon Keane Full Length Play Award as well as being shortlisted for The PJ O’Connor Award and the Tony Doyle Bursary.

 

Two short stories by Kenneth Hickey

 

Act of Faith

Torquemada the torturer and his able assistant agents arrive from a sweetly sweltering Spain in the year of their Lord two thousand and five. Landed in Cork airport, new terminal half built, shadow of Barcelona’s famous cathedral of metamorphosis, courtesy of a last minute deal on Air Lingus.com, ninety four euro from Malaga, one hundred and six, forty four cent with taxes, handling fee and ancillary charges applied. Time for a change, thought the recently deified Dominican, now that the Latin blood of his modern countrymen had begun to burn too brightly, a fanatic flame even his skilled fingers couldn’t quench, the bull run of Pamplona more commercial by the year, TV coverage growing lurid step by step. Ireland’s land of government sanctioned indemnified holy orders more attractive by the beadful.

His band of merry executioners was promptly picked up by a mint green mini bus, property of the Presentation order. The fat friar driver hadn’t wanted to do it, sweat soaked, standing with his little hand written sign, expectant at arrivals, the floating host of scarlet cassocks frightening in their formality. That he was only following orders would be his excuse when questioned later, at the Nuremberg trial of Knocknahenny, when all that will transpire was a distant mould-messed memory, the conclave of Bishops having already decided that the irritant Irish needed a crash course of corrective catechism. The Iberian ambassadors clicked their tongues in tightly held throats as they travelled through the streets of Cork, stray street performs from foreign fields gyrating, not genuflecting, for the pedestrians’ pleasures. One would think it was some sort of special year of celebration were it not for all the frowns.

The soiled street behind the recently refurbished bus station his first port of call, the seagull wing shelter span impressing him little. Pepe, the Catalan clown of old acquaintance, saw his approach and fled fearful, old stories his mother, the bearded lady of Bilbao, had told him while bouncing on her knee, bawling bright. Left a litre of Linden village in his watery wake. Fred who danced to fiddlers on Cook street not so supple, trapped tamely by Torquemada, could only wait his fate, small mercy that the morning’s Malibu might hold the coming pain at bay. Humiliation first in accordance with old customs of antiquity, paraded through the slippery streets in a sulphur yellow shirt, emblazoned with crocheted crosses only coming to the waist, matted modesty exposed for all, as good as things would get. Flogged at Finbar’s saintly door, gathering crowds of Canadians watched the thin blood blotch the marble floor, convinced it was a site-specific spectacle of a passion play by the town’s theatre company of towering renown.

Repeatedly asked to recant Fred floundered. Accused of eating communion wafers, Jesus’ blood and body, found furtive within his filthy folds. Only did it when the hunting hunger clouded his emaciated eyes. Say the sounds, kiss the cross, then strangulation would his salvation be, before the freezing fire was set. Recant alone and quick burning seasoned wood the fuel, otherways slow combusting slivers of green wood the substitute. A choice indeed. The angels in his head confused the victim, no sense escaping his lacerated lips. Hands cut from him then, hung with Hiltis on the holy door. They burnt him. Matthew of Montreal clapped loudest, thinking the drama divinely devised. Fred’s little yapping dog, pathetic past protection against poundings from the pissed proletariat was confiscated, donated to an order of the Little Sisters of the Poor, to be fooled in the one true faith. Once the true nature of events were uncovered a victim impact statement was prepared, a file sent to the DPP, but willing witnesses were far between and few.

One last call to the Veritas shop on Carey’s Lane for Torquemada then, to wish the old women well and have a cup of untainted tea, admired the books on the rights of the unborn, guest speaker at a rally for a radical offshoot of Youth Defence in the upstairs room, watched the painted eyes of the squinting saint statutes watching him and decided that modern Hibernia was home for him. Retired to a rudimentary cloistered cell high in the heavens of the Franciscan Church on Morrison island, wore a horse hair shirt, refused to sleep between linen sheets or eat meat, a Unicorn horn by his plate in case of sudden poisoning by reactionary secret agents of secularism. He loved the gothic architecture.

 

The Cat

He really was a most ponderous man. Not a man of action. The world tended to move by on its cheery way around him, rarely sweeping him up in its path. Routine was his saviour. Without routine he would be lost.

He had seen her many times on the landing they shared, the one that separated their apartments. He read the number from her door as she passed by quickly descending the stairs, wrapping a heavy woollen scarf around her neck, protection against the early autumn wind that swept through the cold streets beyond. She never spoke. She never looked him in the eye.

He had had a cat once but it turned out to be more of a nuisance than it was worth. The litter tray had to be emptied too often and he didn’t like the stairs. But on evenings like this he regretted his decision not to get another. Regretted the empty silence once the key had been turned and the door clicked softly close behind him. He drew the deadbolt. These were strange times.

When the girl returned the street was lit with the blue flashing lights of emergency. A small crowd had gathered. The young policeman had questions that needed answers. She found him attractive, pristine, fresh. The world was blooming. Beneath a blanket they carried the lifeless body into the street, into the waiting transportation. She didn’t turn to look.

No officer, I never met the man.

The apartment across from me you say?

I really do not know.

The policeman made little marks in a little notebook. Official forms would be filled in later.

On the landing she paused, peeking through the open door of the old man’s apartment. The phone began to ring behind her door. She fumbled for her keys. The blue flashing lights faded into the night.