Mam does not like the new talk. The new talk about Beirut. The talk he brought home from London. Mam does not like the new talk about Beirut that he won’t stop with. Dogs, women, heat, hills, entwined with weddings and daughters. He’d been blaguarding a bit about Beirut before, but now he’s gone away off into an entirely new gabbling orbit. He is driving her spare.

What are you saying? What are you saying?

Would ya stop!

What are you on about? You don’t have any children,
never mind four daughters married in Beirut.

You’ll have the pair of us locked up if you carry on this way.

This was the gentler spot she started in.

Shut up.

Shut up.

Shut up.

Would ya

SHUT UP.

For God’s sake, shut up about Beirut. If I hear the word Beirut again I’ll hand you over.

I’ve enough. I’ve enough of it. I’m not for listening another word. It’s enough to drive a body to drink.

And still yet on he sang.

Beirut, Beirut, can you hear me Beirut?

Along with his other sin-cervating ramble about the rain and the harm and on and on, he scrolls out these sermons to himself and anyone unfortunate enough to be in listening distance. Finally she pushes a set of earplugs into his ears hoping the constant drone of himself unto himself might deliver him to a full stop.

Martin John believes mam is in league with Baldy Conscience and that’s why she’s telling him shut up, shut up, shut up every time he mentions Baldy or Beirut. She is very bothered by Beirut. Hot and bothered, yet no hills for her.

Baldy Conscience has succeeded. He has overthrown them. He is here with Martin John. Back here, in the back bedroom, where every backward fellow must dwell.

Martin John has a plan.

A plan to catapult himself from all this though.

Most backward fellas don’t have a plan.

They just stay put.

She tied him in. Mam tied him in the Chair for a reason she did not specify. She did not specify the reason because she had been told not to. We know who told her to tie him in. We don’t need to say it aloud. Martin John is watching us. His ears are open. If we say it aloud he may make ugly screaming noises and accuse us of things.

As soon as things are said aloud, accusations fly.

She tied him in, and it wasn’t too bad being tied in, not as bad as the newspapers might later speculate, but remember Martin John is ahead of the newspapers. He has studied them. He understands their consciousness. He knows how their columnists tick. Bin changes, wine glasses, poll tax, landlord wars and gilpy Jesus Janey freakery. He is ahead of them, but we are alongside him now. Pad, pad, pant, pant.

They’d label a man like him troubled. P words might be used. “In quotes though,” as a by-product of someone else’s mouth. Someone certainly fed by Baldy Conscience. Someone who said something aloud and now the accusations are in print.

He needed to reach a telephone. He must report Baldy Conscience. God knows the damage the man would have done to the house and to the others who had failed to meet Baldy Conscience’s demands.

Martin John could see a long line of them all under Baldy’s direction, wearing rain macs, all reporting to Baldy, all except those in Beirut, those who had the strength, width and wherewithal to withstand him. To resist Baldy’s summons, his lies, his domestic occupation and chronic borrowing of other people’s precious newspapers. They stood beside Martin John. It was only in Beirut he’d survive. Baldy Conscience could never take on the lads in Beirut. Except which lads? Which lads was he thinking of? Was it the green lads? Was it random lads? Was it lads he’d seen on the telly or on a poster? Any lad, any lad in Beirut would do, any lad in Beirut could tackle Baldy Conscience.

He needed to get to a phone. Mam was cute about the phone. Since that time he made them calls. It was them calls that she tied him in for. He remembers now.

He would have to be out of the Chair in order to reach a phone.

The roar.

Outta him.

Still he kept pouring.

The yelping.

Outta him.

Even as she tried to grab the kettle.

Tight

on

he held.

Then pushed the spout into his groin and poured hard. She didn’t like his eyes or the sound of him during it. Obviously.