He arrived at the nest, a low circular mat with low twig walls, resting on a bed of dead reeds which he had patiently collected from around the river. Never too many from any one place. Always the cautious one, it took longer but he knew it was worthwhile. It was a good solid nest which had endured many a stormy night and would endure many more too.
She was looking at him as he dumped the food on top of the nest wall in front of her. She had, of course, been aware of his approach before she had seen him. Together they gave the food to the four young ducklings gathered around her flanks. This had been his fifth time going out to look for food today and they gobbled it down voraciously. He felt that they were growing fast, much faster than he had grown as a young duckling.
He had retained a small piece of greenery for her and himself which she took from him gratefully for she was hungry. He looked at her for a moment, their heads close and nuzzled the feathers on her neck gently. Then he turned and paddled back down the path to begin again his search for food. He looked back and was pleased again to note how well hidden the nest was.
It had been a good idea to move here after their other nest had been destroyed by that big, fast, false thing. It had been too hard and smooth to be an animal, although he thought that he had seen animals on its back or were they inside its belly? It had churned up the water so much that a great surge of water had picked up the nest and smashed it against a tree root.
It was lucky that she and the ducklings had been swimming further up the river when it happened. He had been the only one to see it. Still this was a good place to live, for a while anyway and...he stopped, “where are all the fr?” CRAAACK!
The smoke from Jimmy’s rifle was blue in the heat haze. “Go boy” he urged his Labrador and the dog obediently slid into the water, swam to the other side and returned with the dead duck in his mouth. Jimmy examined the carcass. “Got him in the neck. Good, nothing worse than duck meat tasting of lead shot.” He threw the duck into the heavy canvas bag at his side and turning, tramped away, calling the dog to heel.
She waited anxiously, wondering where he was. Hoping that that loud sound and the bark noise didn’t spell trouble. The Ducklings were getting hungry again, but still she waited..... She waited.
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
Monday, July 30, 2007
Duck - First instalment
He moved slowly into the middle of the stream, feeling the slight increase in pull on his webbed feet from the stronger current. Reeds on both sides sheltered his progress from erratic wisps of Autumn winds.
He looked around him, not too casually, as he paddled along, making sure that there were no unfriendly creatures about. He’d had a nasty brush with a big brown and white barker last year because he hadn’t been on his guard when he was swimming along like this. That had been a lucky escape. The next occasion might not be so lucky, so it was best to be cautious.
He moved into midstream now, having left the reedy streamlet where he made his home. All this area is full of reeds now, he thought, great for camouflage, very marshy. I wonder does it have anything to do with that big false thing downriver. It certainly makes a lot of noise.
The water around him was gold speckled and he wondered did he look golden like that, too, when the Sun shone on him. He worried about it because it would make hiding very difficult if he shone like that. Still the Sun didn’t shine every day and when it did he could hide from it too, but it wouldn’t be very pleasant because he liked to be out in the Sun. It was warm and bright and it made everything thing he saw look more colourful and more cheerful than usual.
He felt the Sun’s heat fade from his back as he moved into the shadow of the great-sized trees that overhung the far bank and filtered the rays of the sun turning it into a cooler green dappled light. The water wasn’t golden or clear over here. It was dark and murky but it held the choicest and most tender bits of greenery and he knew it.
He was going to bring her back the nicest food he could find, to show her what a good mate she had got and to celebrate her first day on the river. Well on this stretch of it anyway.
He carefully selected the nicest pieces of vegetation he could find, stuffing his beak so much that he had to bend his head forward to see out over the top of it. He moved to the edge of the shade cast by the trees and carefully scanned the far bank and each end of the river, upstream and downstream and finally skyward.
Everything seemed calm, normal. Plenty of flies around and more importantly frogs to eat them. That was a good sign. Frogs were always the first to get out of the way at the first sign of trouble.
He paddled back out into the stretch of gold carpeted water again, more alert this time, realising that the burden in his beak would slow him down and hinder any sudden movements he might need to make. Finally he reached the reed-fronted entrance of the lazy little tributary where his home and mate were hidden.
About 20 yards up the little tongue of water he turned right abruptly and disappeared into the reeds following a twisty path that was just wide enough to allow him to swim past without touching the tall waving reeds that waved, acting too as his protector from any alert predatory eyes. He always followed this path even though it would be shorter to go directly to the nest, so as to avoid breaking or moving the reeds and create any telltale signposts to where his nest might be hidden.
He looked around him, not too casually, as he paddled along, making sure that there were no unfriendly creatures about. He’d had a nasty brush with a big brown and white barker last year because he hadn’t been on his guard when he was swimming along like this. That had been a lucky escape. The next occasion might not be so lucky, so it was best to be cautious.
He moved into midstream now, having left the reedy streamlet where he made his home. All this area is full of reeds now, he thought, great for camouflage, very marshy. I wonder does it have anything to do with that big false thing downriver. It certainly makes a lot of noise.
The water around him was gold speckled and he wondered did he look golden like that, too, when the Sun shone on him. He worried about it because it would make hiding very difficult if he shone like that. Still the Sun didn’t shine every day and when it did he could hide from it too, but it wouldn’t be very pleasant because he liked to be out in the Sun. It was warm and bright and it made everything thing he saw look more colourful and more cheerful than usual.
He felt the Sun’s heat fade from his back as he moved into the shadow of the great-sized trees that overhung the far bank and filtered the rays of the sun turning it into a cooler green dappled light. The water wasn’t golden or clear over here. It was dark and murky but it held the choicest and most tender bits of greenery and he knew it.
He was going to bring her back the nicest food he could find, to show her what a good mate she had got and to celebrate her first day on the river. Well on this stretch of it anyway.
He carefully selected the nicest pieces of vegetation he could find, stuffing his beak so much that he had to bend his head forward to see out over the top of it. He moved to the edge of the shade cast by the trees and carefully scanned the far bank and each end of the river, upstream and downstream and finally skyward.
Everything seemed calm, normal. Plenty of flies around and more importantly frogs to eat them. That was a good sign. Frogs were always the first to get out of the way at the first sign of trouble.
He paddled back out into the stretch of gold carpeted water again, more alert this time, realising that the burden in his beak would slow him down and hinder any sudden movements he might need to make. Finally he reached the reed-fronted entrance of the lazy little tributary where his home and mate were hidden.
About 20 yards up the little tongue of water he turned right abruptly and disappeared into the reeds following a twisty path that was just wide enough to allow him to swim past without touching the tall waving reeds that waved, acting too as his protector from any alert predatory eyes. He always followed this path even though it would be shorter to go directly to the nest, so as to avoid breaking or moving the reeds and create any telltale signposts to where his nest might be hidden.
Sunday, July 15, 2007
SPRINGER - (the last bit)
After school Johnny made his way to University, studying in Cork. Johnny was half-way through his final year and the Hilary term was just ending. March and April were very warm and balmy that year. The College was looking beautiful. Spring was a time of year when everything seemed young and vibrant, alive and full of promise, Johnny thought and this was a particularly lovely Spring.
He woke up one Tuesday morning, just as Dawn began to nudge the night over the horizon. He had been in the middle of a bizarre, morbid dream which had started with him flying over a darkened,sleeping landscape. The sensation of flying had felt so real, so tangible, that he could remember the physical sensations vividly and with rare precision. He had been flying for some time, when up ahead he saw a silvery-grey line on the horizon, the sea. The lights of a town began to appear, It looked familiar, very familiar. Then he had it. It was Kilkee. He had spent many a summer holiday there as a child.
He began to lose height, and came in low towards a caravan. Everything else faded into a homogenous grey mass. Buildings, lights, trees all greying out and blurring until there was only the caravan. As he approached it, the roof and side of the caravan closest to him dissolved into nothing and he could see inside. There was a coffin in the middle of the caravan. It was lying on a table, with its top open. Sean was lying inside, his arms crossed on his chest, and his face as white as his shirt collar. An odd thought came into his head. "Where does the shirt begin, and the neck end?" Johnny wondered. They seemed as one, so pale was Sean's flesh. Bleached as it were in preparation for Death's coming. He could hear an old man's voice repeating quietly, "Puir Springer, the puir man." Then the corpse opened it's eyes, and raising it's heavy arms, slowly extended them toward Johnny as if expecting an embrace. He became aware of a whispering inside his head. A thought not his own, alien to him, put there, not born, not innate. "Here, come here. Closer Kid. Come and talk." Johnny recoiled. Fear seized him, sudden and vicelike and he fell from the sky.
He bolted up, awake but still in the grip of this falling sensation and grabbed the sides of the bed in terror. His mind full of what he had just experienced. He got up and dressed quickly went downstairs and out. He got into his small, white car and started to drive, heading for the coast. When he reached a large, wide beach he knew well, he pulled up. Johnny rested his chin on the wheel, and looked out at the distant waterline, now at it's farthest out point. "Sean's dead" he thought . Convinced of this, after a moment he got out and strolled along the deserted beach, alone in his sadness. Sorrow walked beside him as he mourned the death of a man who, in a strange and intangible yet very definite way, meant a great deal to him. Some hours later, when the sun had fully risen, he returned to the city and went to his lectures. All through the day, at the back of his mind, was that sense of forboding that is peculiar to those who are cursed with foreknowledge of an imminent, inevitable event, and are powerless to avert it.
At 9pm that evening, in the bar of the University's Men's Club, he glanced up from his drink and through the circle of his friends, saw a face on a newspaper that he knew too well. A terrible dread overwhelmed him as he stood up and walked over to the girl with the paper. He stood behind her and, looking over her shoulder, quickly read the obituary. His face went white and he left the bar immediately, unnoticed by his friends. Once outside Johnny kept walking and didn't stop until he reached the "Lee Fields", a large , open , grassy area upriver from the University. The river was high that night, and he stopped and stood watching the murky water flow swiftly by with scarcely a murmur.
He thought that he understood it a little better now. If Sean had never meant anything to Johnny, he wouldn't have dreamt about him. As it was, when Sean's life was snuffed out like a candle Johnny had felt the absence of it's heat, it's light.
"There was a sort of link between Sean and I," he thought. "So when that was snapped, I felt it, the way twins can sometimes feel each other's pain and joy, each other's emotions." He felt like a man groping his way in the dark towards a distant light, and it was going to take a while to get there, and, finished grieving, he began to miss Sean, his brother.
He woke up one Tuesday morning, just as Dawn began to nudge the night over the horizon. He had been in the middle of a bizarre, morbid dream which had started with him flying over a darkened,sleeping landscape. The sensation of flying had felt so real, so tangible, that he could remember the physical sensations vividly and with rare precision. He had been flying for some time, when up ahead he saw a silvery-grey line on the horizon, the sea. The lights of a town began to appear, It looked familiar, very familiar. Then he had it. It was Kilkee. He had spent many a summer holiday there as a child.
He began to lose height, and came in low towards a caravan. Everything else faded into a homogenous grey mass. Buildings, lights, trees all greying out and blurring until there was only the caravan. As he approached it, the roof and side of the caravan closest to him dissolved into nothing and he could see inside. There was a coffin in the middle of the caravan. It was lying on a table, with its top open. Sean was lying inside, his arms crossed on his chest, and his face as white as his shirt collar. An odd thought came into his head. "Where does the shirt begin, and the neck end?" Johnny wondered. They seemed as one, so pale was Sean's flesh. Bleached as it were in preparation for Death's coming. He could hear an old man's voice repeating quietly, "Puir Springer, the puir man." Then the corpse opened it's eyes, and raising it's heavy arms, slowly extended them toward Johnny as if expecting an embrace. He became aware of a whispering inside his head. A thought not his own, alien to him, put there, not born, not innate. "Here, come here. Closer Kid. Come and talk." Johnny recoiled. Fear seized him, sudden and vicelike and he fell from the sky.
He bolted up, awake but still in the grip of this falling sensation and grabbed the sides of the bed in terror. His mind full of what he had just experienced. He got up and dressed quickly went downstairs and out. He got into his small, white car and started to drive, heading for the coast. When he reached a large, wide beach he knew well, he pulled up. Johnny rested his chin on the wheel, and looked out at the distant waterline, now at it's farthest out point. "Sean's dead" he thought . Convinced of this, after a moment he got out and strolled along the deserted beach, alone in his sadness. Sorrow walked beside him as he mourned the death of a man who, in a strange and intangible yet very definite way, meant a great deal to him. Some hours later, when the sun had fully risen, he returned to the city and went to his lectures. All through the day, at the back of his mind, was that sense of forboding that is peculiar to those who are cursed with foreknowledge of an imminent, inevitable event, and are powerless to avert it.
At 9pm that evening, in the bar of the University's Men's Club, he glanced up from his drink and through the circle of his friends, saw a face on a newspaper that he knew too well. A terrible dread overwhelmed him as he stood up and walked over to the girl with the paper. He stood behind her and, looking over her shoulder, quickly read the obituary. His face went white and he left the bar immediately, unnoticed by his friends. Once outside Johnny kept walking and didn't stop until he reached the "Lee Fields", a large , open , grassy area upriver from the University. The river was high that night, and he stopped and stood watching the murky water flow swiftly by with scarcely a murmur.
He thought that he understood it a little better now. If Sean had never meant anything to Johnny, he wouldn't have dreamt about him. As it was, when Sean's life was snuffed out like a candle Johnny had felt the absence of it's heat, it's light.
"There was a sort of link between Sean and I," he thought. "So when that was snapped, I felt it, the way twins can sometimes feel each other's pain and joy, each other's emotions." He felt like a man groping his way in the dark towards a distant light, and it was going to take a while to get there, and, finished grieving, he began to miss Sean, his brother.
SPRINGER - (the third bit)
After the escape Sean and George Blake hid out quite close to Wormwood Scrubs, until it was possible to smuggle Blake out of Britain and into East Germany, with Sean following soon afterwards via the notorious Checkpoint Charlie in Berlin. Sean was quickly flown from East Berlin to Moscow by his K.G.B. hosts and Moscow was to remain his base for the remainder of his stay in Russia. However Sean did tour Russia on a few occasions, with Blake, on his own and with Larisa, a beautiful young student with whom he apparently had an affair. He was accompanied by K.G.B. minders on every occasion except the last two, both of which he spent with Larisa; which raises the possibility of her being a K.G.B. agent (otherwise why would they have been allowed to go off on their own unescorted by any security personnel?). Sean became disillusioned with George Blake after he moved into Blake's Moscow flat. The London Blake and the Moscow Blake appeared to be two different people.
It is clear that Blake despised Sean Bourke and merely used him as a pawn in the furtherance of his own plans, to be discarded once his objectives had been achieved, but what he hadn't planned on was Sean's popularity with their Russian hosts. Blake saw Sean as "an Irish Peasant", merely a convenient lever with which to pry open the prison bars of Wormwood Scrubs. He tried to convey the impression of Sean as a stupid bumbler to the K.G.B.. He appears not to have convinced them, but the portrait of Sean that he painted did influence them somewhat in their dealings with the Irishman, an attitude which Sean subsequently used to his advantage.
After a while Sean's relations with Blake deteriorated drastically, and to such an extent that once he realized that Blake was spying on him and reporting everything he said or did back to the K.G.B., he decided to reciprocate in kind. It was as a result of this reciprocal surveillance that Sean overheard Blake suggest to a high-ranking K.G.B. officer that Sean should be disposed of. Blake had mooted the idea as one of two alternatives, but left the K.G.B. officer in no doubt as to which of the alternatives he personally preferred. Horrified by this episode Sean went to a British Embassy and tried to give himself up. He was turned away. Convinced that he was scheduled for death, Sean hid out for in a forest on the outskirts of Moscow for two days before returning to the flat he shared with Blake. Yet he managed to turn a potentially disastrous episode to his advantage by saying that he had acted thus as a result of his desperation to return to Ireland and "take his chances". It worked and the K.G.B. agreed to make arrangements for him to leave Russia.
Some time later in his Moscow hotel room, bored, drunk and lonely, Sean rang his brother Kevin in Scotland. He told Kevin of his intention to return to Ireland and invited him to Moscow to discuss matters. Once again he had upset the K.G.B. and once again their subsequent behaviour was at odds with the evil-bogeyman image which the Western media espoused during the Cold War and continues to this day. That is not to say that Sean was pro-K.G.B., he could see the organization for what it was. He disliked it's raison -d'etre, policies and their effects, yet he liked and seemed to be liked in return by the individual members of it, with whom he came into contact. It must be said, however, that the Soviet way of life and Sean's attitude to life were like oil and water. Society in Soviet Russia society was tightly ordered and closely monitored and Sean was a life-long 'professional rule-breaker'. By all accounts however, he appeared to have endeared himself to his Russian hosts. They certainly put up with a lot from him. In a country where the ability to hold one's liquor is admired, Sean's phenomenal capacity was possibly of help to him. On a personal level then, he certainly got on very well with those Russians that he met.
It is an indication of their regard for Sean that, when he had his brother try to smuggle his manuscript out of Russia when Kevin was leaving, the K.G.B., informed in advance of this attempt, merely confiscated the manuscript (which held some highly critical views of the Soviet Union), searched Kevin, let him go, admonished Sean mildly, and then 'volunteered to ring Kevin in Scotland and let Sean talk to him to to re-assure him as to Sean's well-being subsequent to the event. The two Bourkes used this telephone conversation as an opportunity to put further pressure on the K.G.B., who they were sure would be listening in to the conversation, to expedite Sean's exit from Russia .
It is probable and indeed more realistic that this lack of reaction to Sean's less than exemplary conduct was merely good Public Relations policy on the K.G.B.'s behalf. Yet, they could have easily made life much more difficult for Sean without unduly affecting any good or bad press they might have got. It might be argued that concern over what Sean might say once he reached the West was what motivated them, but they could have solved that problem by keeping him in Russia, or alternatively, discrediting , or arranging a fatal accident for him prior to or upon his arrival in the West. No, in retrospect, the most likely reason was that Sean did not, in the eyes of the K.G.B., constitute any threat to Russian interests.
So, on the 21st of October, 1968, Sean left Russian soil forever. He arrived in Shannon Airport the following day, exactly two years after he 'sprang' George Blake from Wormwood Scrubs. Nine days later he was arrested by the Irish police and held in custody pending extradition to Britain. However Kevin and Seans' solicitors were well prepared. A writ was immediately issued to prevent Sean's extradition until the extradition order could be appealed. It was appealed and in January of the following year the Irish High Court held that the Extradition Act did not apply in Sean's case due to the political nature of the crime, and he was accordingly released. In July, the State appealed this decision to the Supreme Court of Ireland. The State's appeal was denied. Sean had won.
Johnny closed the book, put it into a plastic bag and returned it to the library. The following day he went on holidays with his friends -camping outside the village of Ardmore in County Waterford. Johnny's friends were surprised at how quiet and withdrawn he was for the first couple of weeks, but as the holiday wore on he returned to his normal self. As time passed he continued to hear snippets of news regarding Sean, but did not meet him again, himself. The news was never encouraging. Sean was still drinking heavily and by all accounts increasingly less well off financially.
It is clear that Blake despised Sean Bourke and merely used him as a pawn in the furtherance of his own plans, to be discarded once his objectives had been achieved, but what he hadn't planned on was Sean's popularity with their Russian hosts. Blake saw Sean as "an Irish Peasant", merely a convenient lever with which to pry open the prison bars of Wormwood Scrubs. He tried to convey the impression of Sean as a stupid bumbler to the K.G.B.. He appears not to have convinced them, but the portrait of Sean that he painted did influence them somewhat in their dealings with the Irishman, an attitude which Sean subsequently used to his advantage.
After a while Sean's relations with Blake deteriorated drastically, and to such an extent that once he realized that Blake was spying on him and reporting everything he said or did back to the K.G.B., he decided to reciprocate in kind. It was as a result of this reciprocal surveillance that Sean overheard Blake suggest to a high-ranking K.G.B. officer that Sean should be disposed of. Blake had mooted the idea as one of two alternatives, but left the K.G.B. officer in no doubt as to which of the alternatives he personally preferred. Horrified by this episode Sean went to a British Embassy and tried to give himself up. He was turned away. Convinced that he was scheduled for death, Sean hid out for in a forest on the outskirts of Moscow for two days before returning to the flat he shared with Blake. Yet he managed to turn a potentially disastrous episode to his advantage by saying that he had acted thus as a result of his desperation to return to Ireland and "take his chances". It worked and the K.G.B. agreed to make arrangements for him to leave Russia.
Some time later in his Moscow hotel room, bored, drunk and lonely, Sean rang his brother Kevin in Scotland. He told Kevin of his intention to return to Ireland and invited him to Moscow to discuss matters. Once again he had upset the K.G.B. and once again their subsequent behaviour was at odds with the evil-bogeyman image which the Western media espoused during the Cold War and continues to this day. That is not to say that Sean was pro-K.G.B., he could see the organization for what it was. He disliked it's raison -d'etre, policies and their effects, yet he liked and seemed to be liked in return by the individual members of it, with whom he came into contact. It must be said, however, that the Soviet way of life and Sean's attitude to life were like oil and water. Society in Soviet Russia society was tightly ordered and closely monitored and Sean was a life-long 'professional rule-breaker'. By all accounts however, he appeared to have endeared himself to his Russian hosts. They certainly put up with a lot from him. In a country where the ability to hold one's liquor is admired, Sean's phenomenal capacity was possibly of help to him. On a personal level then, he certainly got on very well with those Russians that he met.
It is an indication of their regard for Sean that, when he had his brother try to smuggle his manuscript out of Russia when Kevin was leaving, the K.G.B., informed in advance of this attempt, merely confiscated the manuscript (which held some highly critical views of the Soviet Union), searched Kevin, let him go, admonished Sean mildly, and then 'volunteered to ring Kevin in Scotland and let Sean talk to him to to re-assure him as to Sean's well-being subsequent to the event. The two Bourkes used this telephone conversation as an opportunity to put further pressure on the K.G.B., who they were sure would be listening in to the conversation, to expedite Sean's exit from Russia .
It is probable and indeed more realistic that this lack of reaction to Sean's less than exemplary conduct was merely good Public Relations policy on the K.G.B.'s behalf. Yet, they could have easily made life much more difficult for Sean without unduly affecting any good or bad press they might have got. It might be argued that concern over what Sean might say once he reached the West was what motivated them, but they could have solved that problem by keeping him in Russia, or alternatively, discrediting , or arranging a fatal accident for him prior to or upon his arrival in the West. No, in retrospect, the most likely reason was that Sean did not, in the eyes of the K.G.B., constitute any threat to Russian interests.
So, on the 21st of October, 1968, Sean left Russian soil forever. He arrived in Shannon Airport the following day, exactly two years after he 'sprang' George Blake from Wormwood Scrubs. Nine days later he was arrested by the Irish police and held in custody pending extradition to Britain. However Kevin and Seans' solicitors were well prepared. A writ was immediately issued to prevent Sean's extradition until the extradition order could be appealed. It was appealed and in January of the following year the Irish High Court held that the Extradition Act did not apply in Sean's case due to the political nature of the crime, and he was accordingly released. In July, the State appealed this decision to the Supreme Court of Ireland. The State's appeal was denied. Sean had won.
Johnny closed the book, put it into a plastic bag and returned it to the library. The following day he went on holidays with his friends -camping outside the village of Ardmore in County Waterford. Johnny's friends were surprised at how quiet and withdrawn he was for the first couple of weeks, but as the holiday wore on he returned to his normal self. As time passed he continued to hear snippets of news regarding Sean, but did not meet him again, himself. The news was never encouraging. Sean was still drinking heavily and by all accounts increasingly less well off financially.
Tuesday, July 3, 2007
SPRINGER - (the second bit)
It was four years before Johnny saw Sean Bourke again. He was in 5th Year in school and he and a few friends were ensconced in a public house in the city one warm night towards the end of June. They were young to be drinking alcohol, but as far as they were concerned that fact just added a bit of excitement to the proceedings. By closing time they had decided to grab a burger, and head for a disco in one of the local Rugby clubs, there to continue their heated discussion on the various occurrences of note during the School Year just gone, in between chasing after any young ladies present at the proceedings. They made a somewhat rowdy exit from the pub, turned right and headed en-masse up the street, some singing, some shouting, some arguing loudly in a bunch, and one or two stragglers quietly chatting and bringing up the rear.
Johnny and his friend Willy, comprised this rearguard. They hadn't taken five steps when their way was blocked by a boisterous group of adults issuing forth from the door of the neighbouring pub, Ma Hogan's, as it was known. The two lads walked quickly around them to catch up with their friends. As he walked past Johnny looked curiously at these extremely drunk people. He was not being rude or even nosey. To think so would be a mistake, rather he was possessed of a keen interest in people, and such keenness and enthusiasm allied to his youth's lack of subtlety must stand as reason enough for any false impressions gained thus. It was people, people of all shapes and sizes, from all walks of Life, that earned his eye's attention. He would watch them, trying to find reasons for their behaviours, to see inside their minds, to feel or at least try to identify the emotions they were experiencing. In short, people fascinated him, but in a warm, human way, not coldly or clinically as an objective scientist might perhaps approach his prey.
A pair of bloodshot eyes caught and held his, then looked away quickly, almost guiltily, as if ashamed of the state they were in. Recognition hit him like a bolt. It was Sean. Sean Bourke, surrounded by his drunken courtiers. Johnny was astounded. Noticing his friend's step slowing, Willy grabbed him firmly by the arm, saying "come on you drunken bum or we'll never catch up" and bustled him up the street. Johnny, too preoccupied to resist, moved with his friend. Yet as he did so, turned his head to look back. Sean was looking at him, with that mocking half-smile of his and grinning still he shrugged his shoulders as though saying in a mysterious, silent language, known only to the two of them, that things were out of his control, and he was caught up by forces greater than himself which would decide his fate,regardless of his desires . It was the last time Johnny would ever see him alive.
Some time afterwards Johnny mentioned the incident to his father. "He made a lot of money out of the book he wrote on the escape from Wormwood Scrubs and his time in Russia," his father said with a shake of his head, "and he has acquired a load of fair-weather friends' who are helping him to drink it all as fast as they can. It's all in the way of good fellowship, of course," he concluded with an angry sarcasm. Johnny wondered how you identified such people amongst your friends, and queried the point with his father, who was one of his most important sources of information and advice. "You only know them when the chips are down," came the cryptic reply from behind the morning paper.
Johnny finished his breakfast, threw on a duffel coat and left the house. He walked down the street, turned right and then left, to emerge into a large, open, square known as Pery's Square. It was more like a long rectangle than a square really, with the People's Park on one side and a row of graceful,old,red-bricked houses on the other. "The People's Park," Johnny thought with a wry smile. "Long live the Revolution, Comrades!" He entered a grey, stone building on the park side of the square, the City Library. After a short while, he found what he was looking for and approached the librarian's desk. He handed the girl the book and his library ticket. "You're very lucky, y'know," she smiled at him. "It's a very popular book, and rarely on the shelves as we don't have too many copies left. Usually there's a waiting list as long as your arm for it, but demand has slackened off in the last few days." "Why so few copies left?" he asked curiously. "Stolen," she replied in an offhand way, preoccupied with checking out his book to him. "Oh, well I've got a day or two to kill before I go on my holidays, so it'll fill the gap just nicely," said Johnny, smiling as he tucked the book under his arm.
He left the library, collected a few messages for his mother in town, and returned home. Thinking on his way home how "collecting the messages" in Limerick was "running errands" somewhere else in the world and considered how such a simple task was differently described in most vernaculars. Now that the sun was higher in the sky, the early coolness had gone out of the morning, so Johnny put on a pair of shorts and a tee-shirt, went out into their spacious back-garden with a deck-chair, sat down and started to read Sean's book.
Sean had been sent to Wormwood Scrubs Prison in London for allegedly sending a letter-bomb to a British policeman. While in prison he took an active part in the organized activities for the prisoners. He seems to have been a good prisoner and was editor of the prison magazine. One day towards the end of his sentence he was approached by George Blake, a pleasant enough fellow Sean had gotten to know reasonably well. Despite being convicted of betraying his country, Blake was not disliked by the other inmates, his charm and apparent friendliness helping in no small way. When he had satisfied himself that they couldn't be overheard Blake made his request: "I am asking you, Sean, to help me escape. Think it over for a few days." Sean stopped abruptly and turned to face him. "George," he said, "I don't have to think it over. I'm your man."
Why did Sean agree so readily? After all his own sentence was almost over. Why mess things up now when freedom was so near? Various factors appeared to have influenced Sean's decision. He liked Blake and they got on well. The lengthiness of Blake's sentence was also in his favour as the length of one's sentence is an important criterion for determining one's standing and the measure of respect one receives in the prisoners' social hierarchy (i.e. the longer the sentence, the greater the standing, respect, and indeed sympathy one receives from other prisoners). Another important point in Blake's favour was that in Sean's eyes he was not an ordinary criminal, but a prisoner of conscience, a man imprisoned for acting on his political beliefs. Sean's main reason however, was that he saw the dangerous attempt as an opportunity to strike a blow against Authority, against that centralized control of Society, whose attempts to shape the behaviour of the individual took the form of codified norms, rules and laws; things with which Sean would always come into conflict, as by their very nature they would try to fetter the wild and free spirit that defined him. Blake's plight also appealed to that innate love of causes, lost or otherwise, that runs deep in some of the more adventurous and passionate members of the Irish race, to which Sean was certainly no exception.
Sean could drink 12 small ones in the space of half an hour, and his first day on parole, he did exactly that. He had 6 double whiskeys and a meal chaser. The second day out he drank a full bottle. The day after he called to his girlfriend, (who apparently hadn't once written to him in prison ), to discover that she was married with a son. He told her that she would probably never know how lucky she was. From then on there were no obstacles to deter him. He began to plan the escape. It was a simple and effective plan and though parts of it went horribly wrong, luck and Sean's devil-may-care audacity were on their side .
Sean's writing seemed stiff and carefully structured at first, as though some publisher's editor had stood over him with a grammar book and whip making him re-write. Yet one could almost feel Sean's pen relax as he recalled the week he spent in Limerick immediately prior to the escape attempt. Bawdy humour and mirth filled the pages of the hitherto neat but cold narrative. It was a bittersweet mood, though , tinged with that sadness, that fond objectivity that haunts our emigre brothers and sisters on their return. It is the price exacted from them, in return for permission to leave and seek a better life, that when they return, those of them cursed with the intelligence to see are forced to compare the reality in front of their eyes with their memories; their perception of one mercilessly destroying their vision of the other, the reality of the present Ireland obliterating their tender, nostalgic remembrance of the Ireland of the past, their past.
Johnny and his friend Willy, comprised this rearguard. They hadn't taken five steps when their way was blocked by a boisterous group of adults issuing forth from the door of the neighbouring pub, Ma Hogan's, as it was known. The two lads walked quickly around them to catch up with their friends. As he walked past Johnny looked curiously at these extremely drunk people. He was not being rude or even nosey. To think so would be a mistake, rather he was possessed of a keen interest in people, and such keenness and enthusiasm allied to his youth's lack of subtlety must stand as reason enough for any false impressions gained thus. It was people, people of all shapes and sizes, from all walks of Life, that earned his eye's attention. He would watch them, trying to find reasons for their behaviours, to see inside their minds, to feel or at least try to identify the emotions they were experiencing. In short, people fascinated him, but in a warm, human way, not coldly or clinically as an objective scientist might perhaps approach his prey.
A pair of bloodshot eyes caught and held his, then looked away quickly, almost guiltily, as if ashamed of the state they were in. Recognition hit him like a bolt. It was Sean. Sean Bourke, surrounded by his drunken courtiers. Johnny was astounded. Noticing his friend's step slowing, Willy grabbed him firmly by the arm, saying "come on you drunken bum or we'll never catch up" and bustled him up the street. Johnny, too preoccupied to resist, moved with his friend. Yet as he did so, turned his head to look back. Sean was looking at him, with that mocking half-smile of his and grinning still he shrugged his shoulders as though saying in a mysterious, silent language, known only to the two of them, that things were out of his control, and he was caught up by forces greater than himself which would decide his fate,regardless of his desires . It was the last time Johnny would ever see him alive.
Some time afterwards Johnny mentioned the incident to his father. "He made a lot of money out of the book he wrote on the escape from Wormwood Scrubs and his time in Russia," his father said with a shake of his head, "and he has acquired a load of fair-weather friends' who are helping him to drink it all as fast as they can. It's all in the way of good fellowship, of course," he concluded with an angry sarcasm. Johnny wondered how you identified such people amongst your friends, and queried the point with his father, who was one of his most important sources of information and advice. "You only know them when the chips are down," came the cryptic reply from behind the morning paper.
Johnny finished his breakfast, threw on a duffel coat and left the house. He walked down the street, turned right and then left, to emerge into a large, open, square known as Pery's Square. It was more like a long rectangle than a square really, with the People's Park on one side and a row of graceful,old,red-bricked houses on the other. "The People's Park," Johnny thought with a wry smile. "Long live the Revolution, Comrades!" He entered a grey, stone building on the park side of the square, the City Library. After a short while, he found what he was looking for and approached the librarian's desk. He handed the girl the book and his library ticket. "You're very lucky, y'know," she smiled at him. "It's a very popular book, and rarely on the shelves as we don't have too many copies left. Usually there's a waiting list as long as your arm for it, but demand has slackened off in the last few days." "Why so few copies left?" he asked curiously. "Stolen," she replied in an offhand way, preoccupied with checking out his book to him. "Oh, well I've got a day or two to kill before I go on my holidays, so it'll fill the gap just nicely," said Johnny, smiling as he tucked the book under his arm.
He left the library, collected a few messages for his mother in town, and returned home. Thinking on his way home how "collecting the messages" in Limerick was "running errands" somewhere else in the world and considered how such a simple task was differently described in most vernaculars. Now that the sun was higher in the sky, the early coolness had gone out of the morning, so Johnny put on a pair of shorts and a tee-shirt, went out into their spacious back-garden with a deck-chair, sat down and started to read Sean's book.
Sean had been sent to Wormwood Scrubs Prison in London for allegedly sending a letter-bomb to a British policeman. While in prison he took an active part in the organized activities for the prisoners. He seems to have been a good prisoner and was editor of the prison magazine. One day towards the end of his sentence he was approached by George Blake, a pleasant enough fellow Sean had gotten to know reasonably well. Despite being convicted of betraying his country, Blake was not disliked by the other inmates, his charm and apparent friendliness helping in no small way. When he had satisfied himself that they couldn't be overheard Blake made his request: "I am asking you, Sean, to help me escape. Think it over for a few days." Sean stopped abruptly and turned to face him. "George," he said, "I don't have to think it over. I'm your man."
Why did Sean agree so readily? After all his own sentence was almost over. Why mess things up now when freedom was so near? Various factors appeared to have influenced Sean's decision. He liked Blake and they got on well. The lengthiness of Blake's sentence was also in his favour as the length of one's sentence is an important criterion for determining one's standing and the measure of respect one receives in the prisoners' social hierarchy (i.e. the longer the sentence, the greater the standing, respect, and indeed sympathy one receives from other prisoners). Another important point in Blake's favour was that in Sean's eyes he was not an ordinary criminal, but a prisoner of conscience, a man imprisoned for acting on his political beliefs. Sean's main reason however, was that he saw the dangerous attempt as an opportunity to strike a blow against Authority, against that centralized control of Society, whose attempts to shape the behaviour of the individual took the form of codified norms, rules and laws; things with which Sean would always come into conflict, as by their very nature they would try to fetter the wild and free spirit that defined him. Blake's plight also appealed to that innate love of causes, lost or otherwise, that runs deep in some of the more adventurous and passionate members of the Irish race, to which Sean was certainly no exception.
Sean could drink 12 small ones in the space of half an hour, and his first day on parole, he did exactly that. He had 6 double whiskeys and a meal chaser. The second day out he drank a full bottle. The day after he called to his girlfriend, (who apparently hadn't once written to him in prison ), to discover that she was married with a son. He told her that she would probably never know how lucky she was. From then on there were no obstacles to deter him. He began to plan the escape. It was a simple and effective plan and though parts of it went horribly wrong, luck and Sean's devil-may-care audacity were on their side .
Sean's writing seemed stiff and carefully structured at first, as though some publisher's editor had stood over him with a grammar book and whip making him re-write. Yet one could almost feel Sean's pen relax as he recalled the week he spent in Limerick immediately prior to the escape attempt. Bawdy humour and mirth filled the pages of the hitherto neat but cold narrative. It was a bittersweet mood, though , tinged with that sadness, that fond objectivity that haunts our emigre brothers and sisters on their return. It is the price exacted from them, in return for permission to leave and seek a better life, that when they return, those of them cursed with the intelligence to see are forced to compare the reality in front of their eyes with their memories; their perception of one mercilessly destroying their vision of the other, the reality of the present Ireland obliterating their tender, nostalgic remembrance of the Ireland of the past, their past.
SPRINGER - (the first bit)
‘He’s a cousin of yours, y'know" said his father that morning. “Who's that Dad?” The boy asked. His voice was muffled, it being stuffed with cornflakes .“Sean Bourke of course!” Answered his father. "And don't speak with your mouth full." The boy looked down at his bowl. "If I hadn't said a word he would've gotten narky over that. I can't win," he sighed. He lifted his head in time to hear his father say, “he's after helping a Russian spy to escape from Wormwood Scrubs prison in England. He seems to have gotten away with it too! " Is he from Limerick, Dad?" Johnny asked. “Yes", his father grunted from behind the paper. Then, after a long pause, "he's from Bengal Terrace, opposite the Graveyard”.
“Didja hear about the fella that got the Russian spy out of prison in England lads?" Willy asked in the yard at Eleven o'clock break. Before anyone could agree or disagree, Johnny piped up, “he’s my cousin”. "Sure” said John Fitz, sneering down at him through his glasses. “He is!” Johnny answered angrily. "My Dad said so this morning at breakfast . He's a distant cousin on Dad's side of the family”. The other tallish member of their gang (on whom so much depended when they were engaged in deadly battle against the boys in the class ahead, every Wednesday) said smiling "I'd say he's fairly distant all the same, eh?" “Well, kind of," Johnny agreed without much enthusiasm . Father Farquharson blew his whistle and the boys, chivvied by prefects, grudgingly formed lines to go into class. As he stood in his line, Johnny was lost in a world of his own, a habit that had made it's way onto several of his report cards. He was oblivious of his schoolmates roughly jostling each other. "I don't care," he said to himself. "I don't give a damn what anyone says. He's still my cousin."
Some years passed and Johnny, still in primary school, was busily developing a keen interest in sport. Rugby was his particular favorite, it being the school sport, and his older brother's forte (an important recommendation for anything as far as Johnny was concerned). The school’s rugby grounds were situated a mile or two outside the city and the boys would cycle out to them along a narrow country road chock-full of bends. This road was feared by local motorists because of the boys' erratic, high-spirited progress towards their beloved pitches (this crazy, fast and reckless cycle race was known to all and sundry as 'The Crescent Charge’).
Johnny was late leaving the school, which was to be found on the main street in the middle of town. He had been kept back for half an hour and made to write out lines for having talked in class. As he cycled slowly away from the school Johnny was not in a good mood. His leg still hurt from a knock he got in the match a few days beforehand and he was anticipating a chilly reception from the coach Father Hugo. "On the hand" he thought, "it could be a warm one. Too warm! I'll bet he makes me run around all the pitches an extra time for being late."
However, Johnny wasn't the type of lad to stay in a bad mood for very long. Boys of his age seldom are, and today's enemies become tomorrow's friends with amazing ease. Neasa Slattery waved hello to him as he went up O'Connell Avenue. He waved at her and roared "HOWIYA!" loudly, 'cos' he knew she would blush. He swerved wildly across the road in an effort to avoid Pompey, a huge white Pyrenean Mountain Sheepdog that belonged to one of the neighbours and was getting old. "Why don't people keep their dogs off the footpath" he thought as he navigated his way back from the centre of the road, trying all the while to ignore the irate drivers' shouts and hornblasts. He continued on his way, his spirits lifting with the exhiliration of a lively freewheel down Rosbrien Hill, and flashing past the last rows of houses before the country.
On turning the corner after the railway crossing Johnny looked up to see a fine, hefty sort of man with a stick and a dog walking towards him on the same side of the road. The boy smiled hello as he passed them, and then his gearbag fell off the back carrier. Johnny swore, managed to halt some yards up the road, and turned the bike around, hopping on one leg as he did so to keep his balance. The man had picked up his bag and walked towards him with an amused grin. "The spring on your carrier must be weak," he said pleasantly.
"Yerra 'tis a shitty carrier anyway." Johnny tried to hide his embarrasment by sounding tough as he jumped off the bike. The man's smile grew broader and his dog jumped up on it's hind legs, playfully pawing the boy's thigh. Johnny bent down and began to pat the dog's head and tickle it behind the ear. "He's nice and friendly," he said, looking up at the man towering over him. "He's never friendly to strangers," the man's voice sounded surprised. "I like animals. I get on well with them, unless they're in a bad mood. Then they bite you. I suppose it's their way of showing that they're pissed off," said Johnny matter-of-factly. "Do you live around here?" he asked the man. "Yes, in the cottage back there on the right," he pointed in the direction from which Johnny had just come. "What brings you out this road?" the man asked. "I play rugby in the grounds up the road," Johnny answered. " I'm on the school Under-10 Team," he added proudly, and then: "God, I'm late for practice . I'll be shot!" He jumped on the bike and tore off, steering with one hand and holding his kitbag with the other. "I'll be seeing you again so," the man called after him as he wobbled down the road. "Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, we train," Johnny yelled back over his shoulder .
From then on Johnny would stop and chat for a little while with the man, if he saw him on his way to the Rugby grounds. He took to leaving school as early as possible in order to chat longer. They talked only of important things, such as the local soccer team's progress, the Spurs V Arsenal match next Saturday, how Johnny's Rugby team was doing, and the ways of dogs, cats and other animals; things that a small boy and a tired man felt they had in common. Never swapping names, they just chatted.
This acquaintanceship continued, barring holidays and the like for a year or so, until Johnny was old enough to go to Secondary school, which turned out to be the recently built comprehensive. It was an ultra-modern place with it's own Rugby pitches encircling the school.
Johnny was driving through town with his father on a rainy February day during his first year at the comprehensive. He hadn't seen the man since June of the previous year, when he and some friends had gone out to the Rugby grounds to play some soccer after their last end-of-term exam. The two of them had sat on a grassy ditch by the side of the road, drinking in the sunshine and gazing at the occasional passing car without too much curiosity as they chatted. After a while one of Johnny's friends, a lad with an English accent by the name of Niall, came back for him to tell him to hurry up as the game had started. As he said good luck to the man and was cycling off in pursuit, Johnny noticed that the man was staring thoughtfully at Niall's fast receding back.
A long line of cars was stopped at the traffic lights, like a shiny wet worm glistening darkly in the grey February light. In the front car Johnny's father turned to him smiling and said "aren't I a fierce,terrible driver?" Grinning at this old family joke, Johnny was about to contest the point but stopped as his eye was caught by a large figure in a raincoat standing at the traffic lights, apparently waiting for the lights to turn so that he could cross. "Dad," he cried excitedly, when he realized who it was. "That's the man I was telling you about. The fella I meet on the way to Rugby practice." The lights changed in his father's favour just then and the car surged forward. His father glanced to he left at the man as they passed by, thought for a moment, then stated: "That's Sean Bourke!" Johnny looked back through the wet windscreen, thinking that the water running down the glass made the diminishing figure look as though
it was melting. "So that's him. Sean Bourke. I knew that there was something about him, something different, special," he thought to himself.
“Didja hear about the fella that got the Russian spy out of prison in England lads?" Willy asked in the yard at Eleven o'clock break. Before anyone could agree or disagree, Johnny piped up, “he’s my cousin”. "Sure” said John Fitz, sneering down at him through his glasses. “He is!” Johnny answered angrily. "My Dad said so this morning at breakfast . He's a distant cousin on Dad's side of the family”. The other tallish member of their gang (on whom so much depended when they were engaged in deadly battle against the boys in the class ahead, every Wednesday) said smiling "I'd say he's fairly distant all the same, eh?" “Well, kind of," Johnny agreed without much enthusiasm . Father Farquharson blew his whistle and the boys, chivvied by prefects, grudgingly formed lines to go into class. As he stood in his line, Johnny was lost in a world of his own, a habit that had made it's way onto several of his report cards. He was oblivious of his schoolmates roughly jostling each other. "I don't care," he said to himself. "I don't give a damn what anyone says. He's still my cousin."
Some years passed and Johnny, still in primary school, was busily developing a keen interest in sport. Rugby was his particular favorite, it being the school sport, and his older brother's forte (an important recommendation for anything as far as Johnny was concerned). The school’s rugby grounds were situated a mile or two outside the city and the boys would cycle out to them along a narrow country road chock-full of bends. This road was feared by local motorists because of the boys' erratic, high-spirited progress towards their beloved pitches (this crazy, fast and reckless cycle race was known to all and sundry as 'The Crescent Charge’).
Johnny was late leaving the school, which was to be found on the main street in the middle of town. He had been kept back for half an hour and made to write out lines for having talked in class. As he cycled slowly away from the school Johnny was not in a good mood. His leg still hurt from a knock he got in the match a few days beforehand and he was anticipating a chilly reception from the coach Father Hugo. "On the hand" he thought, "it could be a warm one. Too warm! I'll bet he makes me run around all the pitches an extra time for being late."
However, Johnny wasn't the type of lad to stay in a bad mood for very long. Boys of his age seldom are, and today's enemies become tomorrow's friends with amazing ease. Neasa Slattery waved hello to him as he went up O'Connell Avenue. He waved at her and roared "HOWIYA!" loudly, 'cos' he knew she would blush. He swerved wildly across the road in an effort to avoid Pompey, a huge white Pyrenean Mountain Sheepdog that belonged to one of the neighbours and was getting old. "Why don't people keep their dogs off the footpath" he thought as he navigated his way back from the centre of the road, trying all the while to ignore the irate drivers' shouts and hornblasts. He continued on his way, his spirits lifting with the exhiliration of a lively freewheel down Rosbrien Hill, and flashing past the last rows of houses before the country.
On turning the corner after the railway crossing Johnny looked up to see a fine, hefty sort of man with a stick and a dog walking towards him on the same side of the road. The boy smiled hello as he passed them, and then his gearbag fell off the back carrier. Johnny swore, managed to halt some yards up the road, and turned the bike around, hopping on one leg as he did so to keep his balance. The man had picked up his bag and walked towards him with an amused grin. "The spring on your carrier must be weak," he said pleasantly.
"Yerra 'tis a shitty carrier anyway." Johnny tried to hide his embarrasment by sounding tough as he jumped off the bike. The man's smile grew broader and his dog jumped up on it's hind legs, playfully pawing the boy's thigh. Johnny bent down and began to pat the dog's head and tickle it behind the ear. "He's nice and friendly," he said, looking up at the man towering over him. "He's never friendly to strangers," the man's voice sounded surprised. "I like animals. I get on well with them, unless they're in a bad mood. Then they bite you. I suppose it's their way of showing that they're pissed off," said Johnny matter-of-factly. "Do you live around here?" he asked the man. "Yes, in the cottage back there on the right," he pointed in the direction from which Johnny had just come. "What brings you out this road?" the man asked. "I play rugby in the grounds up the road," Johnny answered. " I'm on the school Under-10 Team," he added proudly, and then: "God, I'm late for practice . I'll be shot!" He jumped on the bike and tore off, steering with one hand and holding his kitbag with the other. "I'll be seeing you again so," the man called after him as he wobbled down the road. "Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, we train," Johnny yelled back over his shoulder .
From then on Johnny would stop and chat for a little while with the man, if he saw him on his way to the Rugby grounds. He took to leaving school as early as possible in order to chat longer. They talked only of important things, such as the local soccer team's progress, the Spurs V Arsenal match next Saturday, how Johnny's Rugby team was doing, and the ways of dogs, cats and other animals; things that a small boy and a tired man felt they had in common. Never swapping names, they just chatted.
This acquaintanceship continued, barring holidays and the like for a year or so, until Johnny was old enough to go to Secondary school, which turned out to be the recently built comprehensive. It was an ultra-modern place with it's own Rugby pitches encircling the school.
Johnny was driving through town with his father on a rainy February day during his first year at the comprehensive. He hadn't seen the man since June of the previous year, when he and some friends had gone out to the Rugby grounds to play some soccer after their last end-of-term exam. The two of them had sat on a grassy ditch by the side of the road, drinking in the sunshine and gazing at the occasional passing car without too much curiosity as they chatted. After a while one of Johnny's friends, a lad with an English accent by the name of Niall, came back for him to tell him to hurry up as the game had started. As he said good luck to the man and was cycling off in pursuit, Johnny noticed that the man was staring thoughtfully at Niall's fast receding back.
A long line of cars was stopped at the traffic lights, like a shiny wet worm glistening darkly in the grey February light. In the front car Johnny's father turned to him smiling and said "aren't I a fierce,terrible driver?" Grinning at this old family joke, Johnny was about to contest the point but stopped as his eye was caught by a large figure in a raincoat standing at the traffic lights, apparently waiting for the lights to turn so that he could cross. "Dad," he cried excitedly, when he realized who it was. "That's the man I was telling you about. The fella I meet on the way to Rugby practice." The lights changed in his father's favour just then and the car surged forward. His father glanced to he left at the man as they passed by, thought for a moment, then stated: "That's Sean Bourke!" Johnny looked back through the wet windscreen, thinking that the water running down the glass made the diminishing figure look as though
it was melting. "So that's him. Sean Bourke. I knew that there was something about him, something different, special," he thought to himself.
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