We fell into the Project, a slobbering mess of drunks and reprobates.* The Gin Lady was in her cups despite the early hour, she’d been out carousing since early afternoon. A swathe of destruction trailed from her boots and I worried the coppers would soon be on our tail if they weren’t already.
‘Iss my birthday!’ she shouted, leering across the counter at the skinny malchick.
‘Givus me tickets!’ Her hand slipped to the leather bandoleer slung across her chest, drawing out a pair of needle nosed knitting needles . The bandoleer contained seven pairs of needles carved from the ribs of her victims, each progressively more barbed and poisoned than the last. I noticed she’d decorated the foul things with fluffy pink pompoms especially for the occasion.
‘Givus me tickets, or I’ll be doing some damage!’
The boy shivered behind the counter, a bit of plexi-glass and MDF wasn’t going to be enough to save him from the raging banshee. She pulled herself up and was standing on the counter top glaring down at the unfortunate with a glint in her eye that I’d only seen once before. Her needles were dripping venom that hissed as it landed on the cheap wood veneer, buckling the construction under her feet.
‘Fuck me, did you not frisk her?’ I spat at the Gurrier, ‘You knew she was off on a bender today, you were supposed to keep an eye on her.’
‘She gave me the slip’ he shrugged. ‘Anyway isn’t she looking only lovely tonight’ he grinned infatuated. ‘So beautiful’ he muttered, giggling and whispering into his hands.
I came up behind the Gin Lady, and with a swift scissor kick took her knees out from under her. She crumpled and I wrestled the mad bitch to the ground. She was tough, but the alcohol was taking its toll and her reactions weren’t quite fast enough. I managed to rip the needles from her hands, wary of the razor sharp tips. She was bucking under me, raging that I’d messed with her fun. Aiming carefully I flung the needles towards the Gurrier.
‘Hide these!’ and then ‘Kesey! Heinous! C’mon, we’ve got to get these fucks up the stairs and inside before the Polis suss anything.’
Up into the bowels of the theatre we thundered, pushing the scrags out of the way and taking over a full row. A young couple skittered backward , terrified of the multi-limbed yawling screel of us. I collapsed into a seat, throwing my boots over the top of the headrest ahead. Too late I realised that I was now trapped between the Bastard Kesey and Heinous. They’d tricked me those weaselly fucks, this was what they’d been after all along. I cursed myself stupid, having thought that the invitation was a truce, a way to build bridges. My natural paranoia stilted by the promise of beer in a public space. I’d left my weaponry at home. And there was no one around upon whom I could call for help. Priscilla had disappeared and I hadn’t a hope of getting in touch with the Barfly. Not at this hour on a Saturday night, he’d have a nosebag full of crystal meth by now and would be worse than nothing. Now I was pinned between the two evilest men in all of Greater Dublin and it was only getting worse. From the corner of my eye I saw another of the Murphy boys arrive in with his paramour. He was taller than the Gurrier but I recognised the same mad glint of blood-lust in his eyes. His woman had her face painted with excrement and blood.
Fuckin’ culchies, can’t take them anywhere.
The Murphy boys performed an ancient greeting ritual, the audience behind recoiled in fascinated horror, wondering if in fact this was part of the play. Even now, I am forced daily to scrub my eyeballs with bleach with the memory of it, I would rather watch hentai. The brothers finished their vile display, buttoned up their plus fours and crawled into their seats.
They had blocked off my only exit from the auditorium.
The Gin Lady was gibbering in her seat, pulling things madly from her satchel and muttering for drink. I saw the Gurrier lovingly extend a straw from the dark recesses of his jacket and jam it into her toothless maw. She slurped the liquid like it was God’s own essence and fell into rapture, her eyeballs swivelled in her head.
Escape was beyond me, the play was starting.
Nothing happened, and then nothing else happened. And for a long time we sat watching a man sleep in his chair. Fucking hell, they’d dragged me into some Beckettsian nightmare! That fucker Godot was going to show up any second and then where would we be? In the real shit that’s where. I sat staring at the stage wondering when someone would say something. I could see the Gin Lady was getting restless down the end and prayed that the Gurrier had hidden those death needles well. He didn’t seem particularly worried but they were letting me sweat it out. Knew my paranoia would keep me confined. Finally on stage a wellington boot and a bicycle, Freud looked perplexed, people around us laughed but in a guarded way. My compatriots sat patient, waiting.
An hour later we were still waiting, I for any chance of escape, they to dig the elbows in if I made so much as a move. Kesey had his bag of failed experiments at his feet. I could feel something moving there, keening lowly. I stayed still, the least little jig of my knee and I knew I’d be joining the poor crathure that was slowly mutating in the bag.
There was a girl screaming on stage, I thought she’d been killed, that maybe the Gin Lady had gotten hold of her needles again but no, apparently that’s just the way she was supposed to be. Shouty, shouty bitch, I wanted to lep out of my seat and do her some damage but I was still fully aware of the danger around me.
SWAN!
A fucking great swan swung out the side door of the stage and set Heinous giggling, Kesey muttered an oath and I shrieked in fear. But perhaps this would be my chance. Somehow I might escape, if something, anything happened to draw their attention. I breathed slowly. The stage was melting, turning into something that was else. Dali was screwing with time. What had those fuckers cooked up now? What evil creature had they conjured from the depths of hell to torment me? I looked to my right, but the Gurrier and his ilk were all watching intently. Could it be that some other warlock was responsible for this?
A naked woman stepped on the stage, Heinous and Kesey had all but let go of me. Their hands slipped to shadows and I dared not look to see what they were doing. Then from above a most foul and noxious odour. Gas was filling the room. The audience were beside themselves in fear, Kesey roared and coughed, trying to clear his lungs.
‘WHERE’S THE WOMAN?’ he creeched.
This might just be my chance to escape. I stayed still and silent. Around me the crowd was growing restless, the stage had fallen away to reveal a deaths head approaching us. Oh fuck, what had they done? What had they conjured? What was this thing drawing near? And who was it coming for?
It spoke in a voice of razors and rust, as deep and musty as the grave. I could see the Gurrier scrambling in his seat, trying to raise his beloved from her torpor.
‘Get the fuck out!’ he was screaming ‘Get out! It’s fucking Godot! He’s come for us!’
But it wasn’t Godot, or at least not the one we were expecting. The figure lit up like a firecracker from hell, exploding into viscuous bits of flesh that spattered down on our upturned faces. Murphy Jr’s woman was relishing the new face paint. The swan stepped delicately between the gobbets of meat, the audience were mesmerised. It hung in front of us, bobbing gently, hypnotic. I may have dozed, I don’t remember much else. We woke outside in the street, each of us in pools of our own stinking piss.
‘So’ I heard the Gin Lady croak from somewhere to my left ‘Are you saying that was all a fuckin’ dream?’
*Authors note: As the playwright of ‘Hysteria’ apparently couldn’t choose what style of play he actually wanted to write so the thing looked like a mishmash of Beckett, Shaw and Chekov with a wee drop of Sartre thrown in for good measure I have written this review as an homage. Readers may notice a little HS Thompson, a dash of Garth Nix, one part Anthony Burgess and a healthy dose of the Gurrier Murphy, from whom I borrowed the characters.
