It's Hard To Be Holy

EP. 15: Chapter III

Scenes of physical abuse. Coarse and offensive language. Reader Discretion Advised.

The door of O'Toole's blasted open, ricocheting off the wall so loud that Mrs. Fitzgerald sat up with a jolt and slamming her head on the underside of the bar.

The music died. All the faces turned to the new arrival. All faces except Bud, who stood frozen on the imbalanced table, not even daring to breath. He knew by instinct what danger had entered that domain.

Just stay very still, he told himself. Stay very still and maybe she won't notice—

'ALFONSO IGNATIUS! GET YER ARSE DOWN FROM THAT FUCKIN' TABLE, BOY!' came the shriek of anger.

Fuck! She found me! 

And sure  enough, when he raised his eyes towards the doorway, little Bud was greeted by the very face he'd hoped would never find him here again.

There on the threshold stood his mother, Niamh Malone-Carr, the ceiling light shimmering on her shoulders, lighting her thin and drawn face, giving her an unintentionally haunted look. Her black hair, darker than even her son's, was flecked with long strands of silver and was pulled so tightly in a ponytail that it gave her eyes an extra, bulging appearance. Not that Bud's mother needed any help where 'bulging' eyes were concerned. She did it perfectly fine on her own.

'DIDN'T YA HEAR ME?! ARE YA DEAF NOW?! GET! DOWWN!' Usually her accent was soft, years of living in America had diminished most of her brogue, but not that night. That night it spilled from her, wild and venomous.

Banshee-woman! though Bud didn't have the nerve to say it to her face.

Niamh's nostrils flared as she advanced on her son, and the sea of neighbors, once so packed together, parted instantly as Mama Moses raised her hand. For such a small woman, she had incredible reach.

'Ma!' Bud wailed in fear, before—WHACK! The palm of her hand connected with the side of the boy's face, and several brave St. Gregorites audibly flinched. 'MAAAA!'

'DON'T YA 'MA' ME! WHO D'YA THINK YA ARE?! JUMPIN' ON TABLES?!'

WHACK! again, sending Bud into a fetal position, which just gave the mother more things to hit. WHACK! on the head. WHACK! on the neck. WHACK! on the his flat backside. 'Get down!'
Another WHACK! sent the boy flying off the table. He fell to the ground and whimpered as Niamh descended on her prey. 'GET UP! GET YER ARSE UP! NOW!'

WHACK! WHACK! WHACK!

'MAAAA! STAAAHP!'

The neighbors were giggling, but Niamh would have none of that. 'THE HELL ARE YA LL LAUGHIN' AT?!' The giggles ceased. Not even a smirk could be seen in Mudville. It was commonly known throughout St. Gregory's that God does not help those poor souls who have drawn the ire of Niamh Malone-Carr. 'YA THINK IT'S FUNNY HAVIN' A LITTLE BOY IN THIS SHITHOLE?!'

'It's not a shithole!' protested the very affronted O'Toole, but the lady's fury cowed him.

'SHUT UP WITH YA, OR I'LL COME FER YA WINDOWS!' And O'Toole's complexion went putrid. She'd come for his windows once before. Smashed them all to bits for reasons only Niamh knew, but darling O'Toole was sure she'd do it again. 'YA SHOULD ALL BE ASHAMED OF YERSELVES!'

'But Ma,' whined Bud, massaging every sore inch of his body. 'It's just a bit of fun.' He knew he shouldn't have spoken, knew he should've played dead, and he cursed himself inwardly as soon as the words had flown from his mouth.

'Fun?! FUN?! YA THINK THIS IS FUN?!' It was like she'd never heard such a blasphemous word. 'I'LL SHOW YA FUN, SHALL I?!' Then she reached, with long, sharp nails, ('Talons,' Alan Carr would grimace at the Author), and seized Bud by the ear, yanking him to his feet. The child put up a mighty struggle, but it was no use. He was trapped. 'HERE'S SOME FUN FER YA!!'

WHACK! WHACK! WHACK!

'PA!' screamed Bud. 'SAVE ME!'

'Ahh, Bud. I would. Sure, I would,' said Colin, wary of his daughter and her wrath, 'but yer on yer own on this one, and good luck to ya!'

Thus, the sentence was passed. No reprieve would be coming. Before Bud could let out another scream, he was marched away by the ear, through the front door of O'Toole's—crooked now on its hinges—and out into the cold, winter night.

WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! and 'OWWW! OWWW! OWWW!' filled the quiet streets, following the procession of the mother and much maligned son as they ascended the hill

'Yer such a disappointment, Alfonso Ignatius. Such a—ON TABLES?! ON! FUCKIN'! TABLES! I DIDN'T RAISE YA TO BE DANCIN' ON TABLES LIKE A HOOLIGAN!—' She stopped her shouts as they reached the top of the hill, and blessed herself as they came in sight of the church. Niamh might have been many things, but she was never one to swear in front of Holy Mother Church. Not anymore.

'Bless yerself,' she snarled at her son.

'Why?' asked her stupidest child.

WHACK! 'DO AS YER TOLD!'

It took a considerable amount of inner strength to not roll his eyes, but Bud Carr knew that action would surely have meant his actual death, and he didn't particularly feel like dying that night. So he crossed himself, and for his troubles received another WHACK!

'DO IT LIKE YA MEAN IT!'

'I did mean it, Ma!' and this time he was too quick for her swinging hand. He ducked and weaved, dancing several feet out of reach, before crossing himself in a deliberate manner so as to appease his mother.

'Now tell God yer sorry for bein' a hooligan.'

'I'm sorry for bein' a hooligan.'

'Like ya mean it, boy!'

Bud stared up at the towering church, fixing his eyes upon the highest cross. 'I'm sorry for bein' a hooligan!'

Niamh was getting cold and, insufficient as she might have thought his second attempt had been, was ready for home. She took Bud by the arm, and dragged him along the icy street 'How did I have the misfortune to have a son like—Yer such a fuckin' disappointment, ya know that? Say it!'

'I'm a disappointment!'

'Do ya like bein' a disappointment?!'

'No, Ma! I don't like bein' a disappointment!'

'Well, that's what ya are! Just like yer father, ya—' A spasm of tension rippled through her body, straight into her nails that sunk into the flesh of Bud's forearm.

'OWWWWWW!' wheezed the boy, eyes watering.

'A bastard! That's what yer father was. A—DO YA WANNA BE A BASTARD?!'

'No, Ma! I don't wanna be a bastard!'

'Well, that's what yer turning' into. A feckin' bastard! Ya know what ya need?! Ya need Jesus Christ in yer life. That might knock some sense into ya!'

'But Ma!' pleaded Alfonso Ignatius Carr with a stubbornness that cannot be taught. 'I don't need God for that! You're beatin' me just fine!'

WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! and 'OWWW! OWWW! OWWW!' sounded all the way up the street until mother and son rounded a corner and disappeared into the dark.