Pegleg and Paddy Save the World

scream.

* * *

I didn’t come back until Thursday and as I came up the street, smoking my pipe, Pat came rushing around the side of the house. I swear he was wearing the same overalls and looked like he hadn’t washed or anything. The bruises had faded to the color of a rotten eggplant but his lip was less swollen. He grabbed me by the wrist and fair wrenched my arm out dragging me back to the shed; but before he opened the door he stopped and looked me square in the eye.

“You got to promise me to keep a secret, Pegleg.”

“I always keep your secrets,” I lied, and he knew I was lying.

“No, you have to really keep this one. Swear by the baby Jesus.”

Pat was borderline religious, so asking me to swear by anything holy was a big thing for him. The only other time he’d done it was right before he showed me the whiskey still.

“Okay, Paddy, I swear by the baby Jesus and His Holy Mother, too.”

He stared at me for a moment before nodding; then he turned and looked up and down the alley as if all the world was leaning out to hear whatever Patrick O’Leary had to say. All I saw was a cat sitting on a stack of building bricks distractedly licking his bollocks. In a big whisper Pat said, “Something’s happened to Sophie.”

I blinked at him a few times. “Of course something happened to her, you daft bugger, a comet fell on her head and killed her.”

He was shaking his head before I was even finished. “No… since then.”

That’s not a great way to ease into a conversation about the dead. “What?”

He fished a key out of his pocket, which is when I noticed the shiny new chain and padlock on the cowshed door. It must have cost Pat a week’s worth of whiskey sales to buy that thing.

“Did Mean-Dog pay us now?”

Pat snorted. “He’d as soon kick me as pay us a penny of what he owes.”

I nodded at the chain. “You afraid someone’s going to steal her body?”

He gave me the funniest look. “I’m not afraid of anybody breaking in.”

Which is another of those things that don’t sound good when someone says it before entering a room with a dead body in it.

He unlocked the lock, then he reached down to where his shillelagh leaned against the frame. It was made from a whopping great piece of oak root, all twisted and polished, the handle wrapped with leather.

“What’s going on now, Paddy?” I asked, starting to back away, and remembering a dozen other things that needed doing. Like running and hiding and getting drunk.

“I think it was that green stuff from the comet,” Paddy whispered as he slowly pushed open the door. “It did something to her. Something unnatural.”

“Everything about Sophie was unnatural,” I reminded him.

The door swung inward with a creak and the light of day shone into the cowshed. It was ten feet wide by twenty feet deep, with a wooden rail, a manger, stalls for two cows — though Paddy only owned just the one. The scrawny milk cow Catherine doted on was lying on her side in the middle of the floor.

I mean to say what was left of her was lying on the floor. I tried to scream but all that came out of my whiskey-raw throat was a crooked little screech.

The cow had been torn to pieces. Blood and gobs of meat littered the floor, and there were more splashes of blood on the wall. And right there in the middle of all that muck, sitting like the queen of all Damnation was Aunt Sophie. Her fat face and throat were covered with blood. Her cotton gown was torn and streaked with cow shit and gore. Flies buzzed around her and crawled on her face.

Aunt Sophie was gnawing on what looked like half a cow liver and when the sunlight fell across her from the open door she raised her head and looked right at us. Her skin was as grey-pale as the maggots that wriggled through little rips in her skin; but it was her eyes that took all the starch out of my knees. They were dry and milky but the pupils glowed an unnatural green, just like the piece of comet that had slid down her gullet.

“Oh… lordy-lordy-save a sinner!” I heard someone say in an old woman’s voice, and then realized that it was me speaking.

Aunt Sophie lunged at us. All of sudden she went from sitting there like a fat dead slob eating Paddy’s cow and then she was coming at us like a charging bull. I shrieked. I’m not proud; I’ll admit it.

If it hadn’t been for the length of chain Paddy had wound around her waist she’d have had me, too, ’cause I could no more move from where I was frozen than I could make leprechauns fly out of my bottom. Sophie’s lunge was jerked to a stop with her yellow teeth not a foot from my throat.

Paddy stepped past me and raised the club. If Sophie saw it, or cared, she didn’t show it.

“Get back, you fat sow!” he yelled and took to thumping her about the face and shoulders, which did no noticeable good.

“Paddy, my dear,” I croaked, “I think I’ve soiled myself.”

Paddy stepped back, his face running sweat. “No, that’s her you smell. It’s too hot in this shed. She’s coming up ripe.” He pulled me further back and we watched as Sophie snapped the air in our direction for a whole minute, then she lost interest and went back to gnawing on the cow.

“What’s happened to her?”

“She’s dead,” he said.

“She can’t be. I’ve seen dead folks before, lad, and she’s a bit too spry.”

He shook his head. “I checked and I checked. I even stuck her with the pitchfork. Just experimental like, and I got them tines all the way in but she didn’t bleed.”

“But… but…”

“Catherine came out here, too. Before Sophie woke back up, I mean. She took it hard and didn’t want to hear about comets or nothing like that. She thinks we poisoned her with our whiskey.”

“It’s strong, I’ll admit, but it’s more likely to kill a person than make the dead wake back up again.”

“I told her that and she commenced to hit me, and she hits as hard as Mean-Dog. She had a good handful of my hair and was swatting me a goodun’ when Sophie just woke up.”

“How’d Catherine take that?”

“Well, she took it poorly, the lass. At first she tried to comfort Sophie, but when the old bitch tried to bite her Catherine seemed to cool a bit toward her aunt. It wasn’t until after Sophie tore the throat out of the cow that Catherine seemed to question whether Sophie was really her aunt or more of an old acquaintance of the family.”

“What’d she say?”

“It’s not what she said so much as it was her hitting Sophie in the back of the head with a shovel.”

“That’ll do ’er.”

“It dropped Sophie for a while and I hustled out and bought some chain and locks. By the time I came back Catherine was in a complete state. Sophie kept waking up, you see, and she had to clout her a fair few times to keep her tractable.”

“So where’s the missus now?”

“Abed. Seems she’s discovered the medicinal qualities of our whiskey.”

“I’ve been saying it for years.”

He nodded and we stood there, watching Sophie eat the cow.

“So, Paddy me old mate,” I said softly, “what do you think we should do?”

“With Sophie?”

“Aye.”

Paddy’s bruised faced took on the one expression I would have thought impossible under the circumstances. He smiled. A great big smile that was every bit as hungry and nasty as Aunt Sophie.

* * *

It took three days of sweet talk and charm, of sweat-soaked promises and cajoling but we finally got him to come to Paddy’s cowshed. And then there he was, the Mean-Dog himself, all six-and-a-half feet of him, flanked by Killer Muldoon and Razor Riley, the three of them standing in Paddy’s yard late on Sunday afternoon.

My head was ringing from a courtesy smacking Mean-Dog had given me when I’d come to his office; and Pat lips were puffed out again — but Pat was still smiling.