IT HAD BEEN Shaun's idea to call in at the 'Harp of Erin' to toast a farewell to Michael and wish him “bon voyage” now that his holiday was almost at an end. After tonight, Paddy and his family would only be seeing his brother one more time, that being at the airport just before the Monsignor flew out. Between now and then, Michael would be staying at Saint Brendan's Abbey and so would Lechaim for that matter although the Cronins were unaware of this.
For Lechaim’s part, he had to admit that the Monsignor’s company had been pleasant enough, these past few weeks. Shaun’s brother had proven to be an amiable man as indeed was Shaun. Both brothers were in their late forties but there the similarities between the two of them ended. Michael Cronin was slim, about six feet in height, fair-haired, and highly intelligent, whereas Shaun was short, stocky, red-headed like his daughter, pragmatic and earthy. They were clearly very close though and Lechaim could see that Michael enjoyed the warmth Shaun’s family afforded. Therefore, although the Monsignor had a number of Church matters to attend to during his stay in Ireland, he still managed plenty of time for his brother and his brother’s family, which enabled Lechaim to see much of Sinead.
For Lechaim the Cronins' world was one in which he had found contentment, happiness, and peace of mind. The pending departure of the Monsignor would herald in once again a life of routine and order with only the Army and Sinead to fill Lechaim’s days and nights. As for the dreams that had dominated his thinking for so long, they had not recurred, and slowly but surely they were fading from his mind.
The 'Michael' mentioned in his mother’s dreams, Lechaim had now concluded, had nothing to do with Monsignor Michael Cronin; the name itself merely being a coincidence. In fact, the dreams were becoming more and more improbable as time went by. Once the Monsignor finally departed, in his mind it would put to rest, once and for all, any lingering doubts that he might have, and return his life to some degree of normality.
Life, however, has a way of throwing up problems when one least expects it as Lechaim was about to find out. Trouble started that night when Lechaim reached across the bar in Paddy's watering hole, the Harp of Erin, to collect the round of drinks he had ordered. A large man to one side of him turned and snarled, “If you brev down my neck one more time, you forker, I'm going to forking kill yah!”
Lechaim was quite startled by the other man's belligerence. Not the threat itself but the unexpectancy of it. For a brief moment, Lechaim felt his temper rising but kept it under control. The man that glared at him was two inches taller than Lechaim in height which made him a very big man indeed and he was built like a Mack truck as well. His arms were tattooed extensively and his dark brown hair was cut close to his scalp, which enhanced his pugilistic demeanour. In this particular case, Lechaim knew that looks were not deceiving. The man was tough and confident in himself that with his physique he could intimidate anyone. He wasn’t wrong!
Lechaim let the threat slide over him and smiled at the man.”Sorry!” he muttered. “My fault!” One thing though that he couldn’t overlook was the man’s filthy mouth.
“I would appreciate it, however, if you could watch your language, there’s a good fellow! After all, there are women present!” With that Lechaim collected up the drinks and took them over to the Cronins who were sitting talking among themselves. Shamus Dooley was left in his wake with his mouth open, too amazed to act. The man had dared to reprimand him!
The others, the Cronins and the Monsignor had been close enough to the bar to hear the threat that Shamus Dooley made to Lechaim.
“Stay away from him,” Shaun advised. “He's a mean bugger!” As he said it, Shaun glanced over at Shamus who, he noted, was deep in conversation with his companion, a smaller man of medium height who seemed to be giving him some advice.
“That he is!” Maureen confirmed.
Sinead knew all about Shamus Dooley who was only a year older than she. At school he had been the playground bully, taking great delight in hurting anything that got in his way. He had now advanced to become the community bully that everyone detested and avoided. Even the older men were frightened of him for he was strong and completely unpredictable. Shamus had once blinded a man in one eye in a fistfight, and he had been very fortunate at the time to avoid prison. “Youth must have its day!” his foolish mother had muttered to anyone that would listen. The only one that paid heed was the judge that bound him over on good behaviour. It was the growing consensus among those that knew Shamus, however, that it wouldn't be long before he ran foul of the law again. Certainly, they would all breathe easier without Shamus Dooley around.
Lechaim had dismissed the man from his mind and was talking to Sinead when the man's voice cut across them. “So weer not gut enuth for yah now, Sinead Cronin? Is tat it? Yu've found yurself an Engless soldur boy tah keep yah warm!”
Shamus, who had been standing behind Lechaim when he spoke, then moved around the table and leaned over it glaring into Lechaim's eyes, the spittle from his mouth flecking Lechaim's face as he added, “An wat do yah hav to say, yah Engless cont?”
The blow that landed between his eyes lifted Shamus up and back. His arms and legs flailed in the air as if he were trying to swim backward before gravity caught him and he landed spread-eagled on the floor. Lechaim had used the nub of bone at the palm of his right hand, as he had been taught, rather than his fist so as to avoid finger damage. The timing and execution were perfect in execution and demonstrated his prowess in the skills of hand-to-hand combat. “That's the way, sir!” his taciturn Scottish martial arts instructor in the army would say over and over again. “That's the way!”
Shamus Dooley hadn't seen the blow coming and nor did many of those around him. Now, as he lay like a stunned mullet on the floor, it took him a few seconds to comprehend the unthinkable. Someone had actually knocked him down. It had never happened before and it took a little while before his head cleared sufficiently to digest the fact. He gave a growl like a wounded bear as he slowly regained his feet but he instinctively held back. Rage was mixed with another feeling quite alien to him, that of apprehension, and he stood looking at Lechaim trying to gauge the distance and his chances. Those who had been previously sitting or standing around, including the Cronins, had scattered.
“I'm gonna kill yah for tat!” Shamus snarled as he tried to work up the courage to make his rush.
Lechaim was at once regretful. The man before him was uncouth but he shouldn't have hit him. After all, he was trained in self-defense and the man facing him was just a street fighter. Lechaim had no doubt that the man could be lethal in his own environment against opponents unschooled in martial arts, but the man was no match for anyone trained to kill as Lechaim was.
“I'm sorry, my friend!” Lechaim said. “But you should really watch your language. After all, there are women present as I mentioned before.”
The tension in the bar broke as the onlookers began to laugh. Shamus Dooley couldn't believe it. They were laughing at him. Rage overcame any fear he might have had and he charged at Lechaim like a savage bull. Lechaim was ready for him. He could have killed the man in the first pass but it wasn't warranted. Instead, Lechaim flung the man with a sweeping hip throw to the floor and came down with a knee into the man's solar plexus.
The fight was over even before it had really begun and a collective cheer rose from those present. The village bully had at last been bested, and Sinead’s boyfriend had been the one to do it. He was all right, they decided. Englishman or no Englishman. Shamus, clutching at his stomach, and still gasping for air was willingly carried out by two burly bystanders and dumped unceremoniously on the gravel outside.
Men that had never spoken to Lechaim before now slapped him on the back and drinks came from all directions.
“About bloody time someone sorted that bastard out!” seemed to be the popular theme for the rest of that night.
When Lechaim finally drove them home, he could sense their unease. The truth of the matter was that the others were a little awed by a man who, until all of an hour ago, was just a big lovable giant. Now he was much more in their eyes, and they had not yet adjusted to the other side of Lechaim's persona. Even Sinead was subdued and Lechaim tried to think of some way of easing the tension. A show of violence, he knew from past experience, had that effect on ordinary people, and he began reproaching himself for the incident.
Monsignor Michael was also deep in thought. He could see now why the authorities had assigned the big man to protect him. The demonstration in the pub of Lechaim’s prowess in unarmed combat brought home to the Monsignor that Lechaim could be a very dangerous man if provoked, as indeed he had been earlier. He could also sense that his brother’s family was feeling uneasy. Therefore, he decided to break the silence.
“Did you see that big ox go down? You should've been a fighter, my boy! You should have been a fighter!”
Michael's obvious approval of Lechaim's actions was the very tonic they needed and they all relaxed. Even Maureen reluctantly admitted, “He did have it coming!”
It was way past eleven before Lechaim and Monsignor Michael made their leave. They re-enacted the part they played every time they went home together, which wasn’t often because the Monsignor normally stayed at his brother’s overnight.
“I’ll give you a lift back, Father!”
“Thank you, my boy. Thank you! Very kind of you!”
“You'll see me off at the airport?” the monsignor asked his brother as he climbed into the car alongside Lechaim.
“We will that!” Shaun said and he and the two women waved to them from their front gate as Lechaim pulled away and they remained there until the car disappeared down the lane.
Back at the pub, behind closed doors for it was after hours, a group had congregated and the fight was the topic on everyone's lips.
“Did you ever see such a thing? Shamus will think twice before he picks on anyone again!” Peter Grogan said with glee.
Tom, the barman, remarked, “That man's no ordinary soldier. He's SAS! You mark my words!”
Peter's eyes widened at Tom's remarks. “SAS! You don't say!”
“Yes! They're mean bastards and no mistake. If you ask me, Shamus was lucky the man didn't kill him!” Those standing around him nodded sagely.
“One thing's for certain. Shamus won't be picking on Sinead’s boyfriend again in a hurry!” one of their number remarked.
“That's for sure!” the rest chorused.
Frank Hennessy, the man that had been standing with Shamus at the bar earlier, had been listening intently to all this. The night had not started out well. By rights, the Englishman should have been no match for Shamus. The provocation had been intentional, of course, but that was the only part of the plan that had worked. No matter, Frank decided, the English soldier was just another factor that they would have to deal with later. As for Shamus, the job ahead required professionals not fools so it was best that he be eliminated from the operation. In fact, the man decided, it would be best if Shamus were eliminated altogether. His mind made up, he left the pub with purpose in his step.