In Search of My Father 2017 Writing Project

In Search of My Father 2017 Writing Project
In Search of My Father, 2017 writing project supported by The National Lottery through the Arts Council of Northern Ireland

Monday, 13 June 2016

BELFAST BACKLASH - A STICKY MILLER & LIMP DONNELLY CRIME STORY

In 2012, I self-published 'Belfast Backlash', a crime caper. Now, I am re-reading it, revising, tidying and tightening it up to republish in a new edition.






PREAMBLE

“I was checking off the names of various characters in my head, ticking and crossing as I went through the litany of all those with whom I had come in contact in the previous ten days; Eddie Hennessy, genius and murder victim; John Devlin, rogue, living out his last days in peace; Bog O’Byrne, thug and now motorway bridge support; Brendan Bertram, sweet old man with enough to say and more to tell; Bingo and P.J., idiots on crutches; Joan Jones, a tragic, lost opportunity to be the love of my life; Steffi Ellerbrock, a beautiful surprise out of the blue; Jackie Strong, infamous piece of scum and still to account for his risible life; Dave Robinson and Billy Strong, dead men walking…………”
 

Introducing Private Investigator Sticky Miller and his resourceful sidekick Limp Donnelly as they investigate the death of a poet.  In the process, they get involved with gangsters and other shady characters in Belfast and beyond.  With little fear of action, no fear whatsoever of puns and a penchant for pontificating, bullets, one-liners and words of wisdom fly in equal measure in this hard-boiled, explosive crime story.










FIRST CHAPTER

“Belfast is a shit hole.  If the world had piles, that’s where they’d be.”  The man who spat these words in my face ended up in hospital with a broken jaw and two black eyes.  My bruised hand was purely a coincidence.  Nobody runs down my city.  That’s my job.
On a particularly dull and boring Belfast day in my first floor flat overlooking the river and a couple of empty warehouses that looked
spooky in the foggy smog, I tried to find a position where the eyes of the toy leprechaun on top of the bookshelf did not follow me around the room.  It was impossible to hide from the damn thing.  It sat there between James Joyce’s ‘Ulysses’, essential to impress the ladies, and Seamus Heaney’s ‘Death of a Naturalist’, just essential for mind, heart and soul.  Here I was, a private investigator, outwitted by a little green lucky charm, which had been given to me as a fun gift by an old ex-friend who seemed to enjoy taking the piss out of the Irish.  I remember thanking him from the heart of my bottom as I poured, nay wasted, a perfectly decent pint of Guinness over his head.  We have not spoken since but his spirit and spite haunts the leprechaun who in
turn haunts me with static but deadly eyeballs.   Some self-imposed threat of a lifelong curse stops me from disposing of it, so we have a silent pact just to get through each day without unnecessary rancour. Over the years, I have assigned a very important task to the green chap.  He carries my front door key in a slot between his buttocks and
to save my legs I throw him out of the window to whomsoever I
authorise to come up and see me.  It is an arrangement that works and we just get on with the relationship of being a key-minding leprechaun and a private investigator.
The doorbell rang, just a normal ding-dong, although I had promised myself a new chime of the Black Velvet Band as soon as I could afford the luxury of it.  I looked out of the open window to see Limp Donnelly’s bald spot.  I shouted at him to get ready to catch the leprechaun and then threw it down towards him.  In true tradition, he raised his hands above his head and waited for the key to arrive.  When it missed his hands and banged into his forehead, he shouted an expletive that seemed to echo across the river, bouncing between the warehouses before evaporating into the stillness of the afternoon. “Fuuuuuuuucccccccckkkkkk!”
I had hoped that Donnelly had brought a fresh bottle of Bushmills whiskey with him to warm us up. The flat was as cold as a solicitor’s heart, only because I was too tight to turn on the heating on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays.  I looked forward to the other days but as this was Wednesday, I was wearing several layers of clothing and waiting for potent liquid refreshment as a necessary remedy for my blue nose and shivering limbs.
Donnelly had indeed delivered the goods.  He had a plastic carrier bag containing two bottles of booze, which he presented to me with glee, unaware of the demon bag’s singular threat to the planet.  He took the view, supported by me incidentally, that plastic bags are made from products of the Earth, so there is nothing strange in their manufacture
to threaten the Earth, just, it would seem, Earthlings who get off on gloom, doom and despondency.  When a supermarket poster declares that every time you re-use a carrier bag the planet says thanks, a) no it doesn’t and b) the marketing guys should ease up on smoking their nuclear tobacco.  This is Earth-chattering stuff.
Limp put the bottles on the kitchen table and incarcerated the plastic bag with all the others accumulated under the sink in a cupboard akin to Alcatraz for bad, bad things.  There were a couple of tax demands in there too. He poured generous drinks and sat down.  Donnelly and I had a long history of friendship, moral support, pub-crawls and a love of poetry.  We would write and perform poetry every Thursday night at The Stanza, a venue for writers to meet, share verse, get drunk and put the world to rights.  It was the perfect antidote for a private investigator used to crime with all its nasty traits and evil outcomes.  It was certainly a welcome respite as business had been a little slow of late.  In practical terms, Limp was expert at finding his way around Internet search engines and he seemed to know enough people to gouge out information when I needed it most.
“Have you written anything new for tomorrow night?” I asked.
“No,” said Limp, “remember Eddie Hennessy is doing a rare performance.”  Hennessy was a world famous poet, with global poetry sales in respectable numbers.  He was a Belfast man in his late sixties and wrote some of the most wonderful words in literature.  He had never forgotten his roots, his upbringing, the locality that had shaped him and his friends and supporters.  The gig was a last minute
arrangement and I was looking forward to it because I loved him and
his canon.  The phone rang.
“This is me, is that you?” I enquired.  I knew it was a silly way to answer the phone, but it tickled me every time.
“Yeah.  Sticky, it’s Barney at The Stanza.” Barney was manager, caretaker, chief cook and bottle smasher at the venue and a friend of mine who had fed me in the hard times and made sure I got home when I was mugged by alcohol.  He had one tooth in his mouth, but ironically a great warm smile. He was Walter Brennan with a broad Belfast accent.  I detected nothing but anguish in his voice. 
“What is it Barney?” I asked. 
“I’ve got a problem over here,” he said, his voice a little higher pitched than normal.
“What is it? Booze sales down and you need me to bump up your income?”
“I wish it was that simple Stick.  It’s Eddie Hennessy.”
“What’s the matter?” I asked.  “Don’t tell me, he needs a killer limerick to open the show and he knew he could rely on me?”
“Shut up, will you?” Barney was in no mood for unwise cracks.
“Barney, what’s going on? What’s wrong with Hennessy?” I said with my hand clenched around the receiver and tight ripples forming on my brow.  I heard an intake of breath.
”Hennessy’s dead.”

<<<<<End of Chapter 1>>>>>

I'll see how it goes in revision. If anyone is interested in reading or assisting with publication, please get in touch - joecushnan@aol.com


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