Pious Fraudsters

I.

I remember that night. I remember a lot about Patrick O’Dair, actually, and all the stupid things he did – but heretofore it had been harmless to us – but I’m getting ahead of myself.

I haven’t even explained what we were doing that night. We were playing cards that night in the old wagon by the side of the road, what Paddy called home, because he was too stingy to afford a room and anyway none were going spare. Me and Behan lived in a room, but we shared it with another family of six – Behan being my closest friend and protégé.

And we were talking about the rich and the wealthy while we lived in our hovel and gambled our money away to each other, until Patrick set down his winning cards, swept up all the money, and said, “I strike gold, again.”

“Again!” Behan fumed. “You’ve marked the cards, you crook.”

“Behan! I’m an honest man,” Patrick replied, “I’d never do that.”

“But you did. Look,” he said, “Devon, eh, tell me if this Queen of Hearts ain’t marked.”

“Tell him I’m honest,” said the cheat.

“He’s a crook,” I replied.

Behan stood up. “I won’t be cheated,” he snapped. “Here – give me back my money, will you, since you didn’t win it honestly.”

With a laugh – Patrick picked up a few pennies and tossed them to him. Behan counted them avidly, and then looked at him in amazement. You see, Patrick didn’t part with his money when he cheated, a trait which was the subject of more than one boxing match out on the street between them.

“What’s the meaning of that?” Behan asked him.

“Naught, but that I made a rich friend, and need not your pennies,” Patrick chuckled.

“Who?” I asked.

“A man by the name of Banksbridge,” Patrick replied. “I met him as I walked down the river to my usual place –”

I stop here because Patrick’s profession was that of a pickpocket, and a very good one he was too, when he was lucky. He poached the money-holders of many a rich man and then spend the money on fine clothes, so that he could walk among them with all the appearance of a man of the middling classes. He did a silly voice to go along with it too – I think it was his idea of a posh English accent.

“– and I met this man, and we got on fantastically after he mentioned his having an Irish brother.”

“So?” Behan snapped. “Scarcely means you can leave us all behind – for one conversation!”

“Oh no, Behan,” Patrick said, reaching into the breast pocket of his old silk coat – “I got this.”

He pulled out a fat, jangling wallet. “Bloody hell!” Behan cried.

“I know – I also accepted his invitation out to dinner.”

I said, “Paddy!”

“Wait,” Patrick said, “hear me out. Because he’s got a little business that needs setting up, and he said he’d like some help, and I said of course I could do that, and if I play it right, I could –”

“You can’t break the chains of poverty, Patrick,” Behan said coldly, “and it’ll never work. You’ll only bring harm to yourself if you meet the gentleman, so for your own sake, don’t.”

“Poverty!” Patrick scoffed. He looked around at the dismal place he lived in, the orange candle, the smoky air. “Oh, don’t you think I can do better than this? I could be rich, Behan, I could be living like a king!”

“You idiot,” Behan began, but I could sense a fight coming on, so I jumped in:

“Oh, let the man dream, it’s the only comfort he can get for free round here.”

“He’ll break himself trying!” Behan cried.

“Behan,” Patrick said, standing up too, his height and thick build making him tower over that whom he had addressed, “I came to this city after my family were dispossessed and slaughtered, and I fled with nothing but tuppence and my life. I’ll be damned if I don’t remake the family fortune, in whatever way I see fit!”

“Don’t feed me your pipe dreams,” Behan returned, “don’t feed us your false hope! It pains the soul to talk of things – that – can – never – happen!”

I made to get up. I hated it when they fought, unless it was inside a ring of men on the street who were betting on the outcome. “Stop it,” I shouted, “stop it now, I don’t want to hear another bloody word from either of you!”

They sat down. Patrick looked away, Behan scowled at the floor and muttered something disparaging under his breath. Patrick heard it and got up again, and brought his fist down on the table, and at that second there was an almighty crash outside, and all three of us stopped.

Behan and I jumped out of our skins. “What the fuck was that?” he cried, standing up again.

Patrick was looking at his fist in amazement until Behan had moved. “Wait,” I said, going to the window, “I think it came from outside!”

We filed out of the wagon and onto the street. London was silent, except for the rain which began to fall and the sound of distant shouts.

I knew right then that a tragedy had begun.