By Beverley Jackson
Here’s the latest contribution from the Rose City Writers – this week from BEVERLEY JACKSON…
The End Justifies the Means
The size eleven shoebox in my old shed had been left there for the taking; and I Clarrie McDinnie was just the man for the taking. It contained forty thousand pounds and I knew who put it there. After all the sorrow since the murder of my good pal Gimbie; I deserved it. I paid my outstanding bills and put the rest into the Four Leaf Clover Bank, for safekeeping.
So there I was sitting in my comfy chair, feeling rather satisfied with life and watching a rerun of Father Ted, when there was a knock at my door. I opened it to be met by a fierce-looking Leprechaun, who I well knew; by the name of Stinkwood.
“Give me back me money you thieving devil,” he yelled into my kneecap.
“Now, what are you mumbling about?” I say, knowing full well.
“Me money, give it to me,” Stinky demanded.
“What money would that be now?”
“Don’t act all innocent,” he growled,
“Why would I have your rotten money?”
“Because, you found my shoebox!”
“Since when did you wear size eleven shoes or was that a present for your lady loves’ big plates of meat?”
“Mind yer business,” he spat at me.
“No need to get all nasty Mr Stinkwood.”
He ran between my legs and into my house, and started poking about. Finding nothing, he ran into my kitchen.
“Hey, hey!” I say, “you’re trespassing, you nasty little man.” I grabbed him by the scruff. He glared at me, feet flaying wildly in the air.
“Let me go!”
“Let’s talk, shall we?” I say.
“Give me my dough or I’ll put a curse on you.”
“A curse?” I say, “Well I know Leprechaun Law, and as long as I keep me eye on you, you can’t do a bloomin’ thing.”
He looked about to explode. Not fancying Stinkwood pieces all over my house, I said. “Well let me tell you, what I know about you and your accomplice Molly. You’re both wanted because you killed Gimbie, Molly’s husband, for his gold. And the dough in the shoebox was your secret stash for a quick getaway. Not easy when you’re on the run carting heavy gold is it?”
Stinky stopped wriggling and gave an evil smile, “Ha! It be hard for ye to keep me under your gaze Mc Dinnie, seeing as me beloved Molly is about to murder ye also.”
“Don’t think that I’ll fall for that old trick,” I say.
I shoulda believed him, for an almighty blow sent me sprawling, forcing me to release my criminal detainee. Before I blacked out, I caught a glimpse of Stinky’s partner in crime the widow Molly O’Gorman standing over me with a sledge hammer and a look of ghastly murder in her eyes.
Sometime later, mercifully, I revived to find the house in darkness. The moonlight showed my kitchen floor to be covered with spilt milk, smashed eggs, broken plates and flour. It made me blood boil. I was covered head to toe in the sticky muck and I knew that if I got myself anymore steamed up, I was sure I’d bake myself into a double layered sponge cake.
Through the window I could just make out the stupid pair searching my old shed by torchlight. Like Gimbie, I too had been left for dead by these dastardly characters. When I glimpsed myself in the darkened mirror, I nearly jumped out of my batter coating, but it was then I knew what to do.
They were making such a racket they didn’t hear me coming; so I threw a brick at them. It missed of course; I never was good at throw ball as a kid. They turned and saw – me – well what they thought was the ghost of me, holding a hurricane lamp and covered with the contents of my kitchen floor, I must’ve looked a right real apparition.
I said, in my most ghostly voice, “I’ve no need for the money now. Look in the cellar.”
“Cellar!” they screeched.
“The one I used for keeping me Guinness.” I continued in my best otherworldly voice, “You’re standing on the trap door.”
“We don’t see no door,” they chortled. I smiled inwardly, at my clever plan. It was then I pulled the lever. What lever, you ask? You see my old shed was once a motor workshop and the waste oil was flushed out that way. Anyway, away they went down the drain, heading for the sewerage works.
Immediately I phoned Constable O’Conner telling him I’d just detoured the desperados, who after having trashed my house had left me for dead. O’Conner rushed to the sewerage plant to await the offenders.
I found my wallet amongst the mess; the twosome hadn’t twigged that one. My bank card where the rest of the shoebox stash resided was intact. So, I booked the honeymoon suite at the local. A spa bath and a large mug of Guinness to toast to the memory of my dear departed mate, I am sure will do me good.
And I deserve all of this I know, but I think I told you that before, haven’t I? And without a doubt I know, Gimbie would agree.
