Buck Eason

Buck Eason Memories of Belfast in the 60s/70s

The Final Chapter! To see a full recap go to:https://medium.com//buck-eason-87f56c04b194CHAPTER FIFTYEverything is as it...
23/11/2022

The Final Chapter! To see a full recap go to:
https://medium.com//buck-eason-87f56c04b194

CHAPTER FIFTY

Everything is as it should be. For a Sunday afternoon. They meet in the Continental. Not Victor's. As it should be. On a Sunday afternoon. They sit in their favourite booth but they do not kiss.
- Where did you go to? (She looks so pretty.)
- When? (Buck is actually unsure what she's referring to.)
- After the meal in Earls Court. I was expecting to see you next day. For lunch. Remember?
- Yea.
- So what happened?
- I came home.
- I was so upset.
- Were you? (Buck is genuinely surprised.) Really?
- Of course.
- Moira. (He hesitates. She looks at him.) I saw you with Johnny.
- I know. You told me. At the shop. Please Buck. I can't do the Johnny thing. Again. I've told you. So many times.
- No, I mean that night. And the next morning. I saw you with Johnny.
- Oh.
- Yea. Oh.
- And you think?
- Of course.
- But. There is, there was, nothing going on. Like that. I was helping him. He was helping me. That's all. We were friends and
- And?
- And comrades. (The word sounds too adult.)
- I don't believe you.
- It doesn't matter if you do or don't. Anyway. Now. He's gone. (She breaks down.)
Buck looks impassively on. Her shoulders are heaving under the weight of her sobs. But Bucks looks impassively on. He should perhaps pat her or stroke her somewhere or say 'There, there' or offer her a handkerchief but he doesn't. He just looks impassively on. He doesn't think of her feelings at all. Only of his own. His girlfriend (ex-girlfriend?) is crying her eyes out for another bloke. That's not right, is it? The ache in his heart returns. His stomach lurches. He has a choice now. He still has a choice. Either he can empathise and sympathise and be adult about this and help the girl he is supposed to love OR he can confirm his immaturity, collapse into self-pity and hatred, and continue to hatch his spidered plans for revenge and retribution.
Without a second thought - maybe even without a first - he chooses self-pity, hatred, revenge and retribution. Gets up from the table. Brushes past the startled waitress who has just done them the favour of bringing down their milky coffees (usually you have to go up to the counter and collect them yourself). He doesn't look back. He doesn't say another word. He leaves her with her tears and sorrow and distress - oh, and the bill. He leaves her with the bill as well. And there he is now out on the street.
For no particular reason he starts to walk towards The Road. There are few buses today. Not much traffic. Even the army is running a Sunday service. They will only harass a mere handful of local youths. It's Sunday. Day of rest. But Buck cares nothing for buses or traffic or army patrols right now. He heads up The Road.
There are moments on his walk when he feels he's being watched. Which, to be honest, is not an unusual state of affairs. On The Road. And it is due entirely to the fact that in all likelihood, at any given moment of the night or day, everyone going up The Road IS being watched. By the Brits. By the Ra. By nosey biddies on street corners. By cheeky kids. So, he can't shake the feeling. That he's being watched. When he gets to Dunville Park, he decides to go in and sit on a bench and have a (nother) smoke. It is now that his suspicions (about being watched) will be confirmed. The little park is quiet. There aren't even any kids in the play area. Probably because the swings and roundabouts and see-saws and slides are all chained up. It's Sunday in Belfast after all. The Sabbath. Thou shalt not crack a smile on the Sabbath. And as for letting kids have a swing in the park. Forget it. Chain them up. (The swings, not the kids. Although come to think of it…..maybe not such a bad idea. Can we get away with it?) So, yea, Dunville Park is quiet. Buck is kicking up little clouds of dust in front of his bench. The (rather impressive) Victorian fountain (no water, unfortunately) is right there across the gravel. A scruffy looking fu**er with too much hair and a big Fenian beard comes shuffling along. He looks about eighty and so it is quite some time before Buck recognises 'Gordon' Bennett. Is he the watcher? The last time Buck saw him was that day in Victor's just before he found out from Joe Doyle that Moira was in London. Which was when? A month ago? Something like that. The fu**er's always hanging around.
Bennett looks as if he has been living in a hedge. But there he is in all his glory. Popping up out of nowhere. Like he always does.
- Alright, Buck? Need anything?
- I need loads of things right now, Bennett. But nothing you can help me with.
- Get away outta that with ye. A wee spliff can help with ANY situation.
- No thanks. I'm goin' home in a minute.
- It's on the house.
- Naw. Yer alright. I'm not in the mood, so I'm not.
- D'ye mind if I…… (Bennett motions to the joint he's just taken out of his pocket.)
- No, no. Not at all. Go for it.
Bennett lights it, takes a long, long draw, holds the smoke in for an inordinate amount of time and them releases it slowly in a sickly-sweet stream.
- That's better. Ye sure you don't….(again motions with the joint towards Buck.)
- No. No thanks. Like I said. I'm expected home.
Bennett is looking around now. Checking the area. Second nature for a man in his business, obviously, but when he turns back to look straight at Buck, his eyes are keen and focused. The laconic, heavy-lidded sliding gaze he normally affects is gone. There is a set to his mouth now. Purpose in the suddenly squared shoulders. The hippy drawl has disappeared as well.
- You heard about the arrests in London, right?
- Of course yea. Moira's sister is one of them.
- Yea but you heard about the other one. This weekend. Right?
Buck is surprised. Bennett has never behaved like a newshound before.
- Of course. Yea. I caught it on the news this morning.
- Moira's wee friend. (Again Bennett checks over his shoulders.)
- Yea, bu'…….how did you know? Nobody knows about th….
- You know, though, Buckie boy, dontcha? You know.
Buck stands. He is feeling very uncomfortable. He doesn't like the direction this conversation is taking.
- Listen. (He says.) I don't know what you heard or who you heard it from. None of this has nothing to do with me. And like I said before - I'm just on my way home so if you don't …
- Sit down Buck. You're not going anywhere. (The voice has a strength and an undertow of menace now that is quite persuasive. And totally new. Buck sits. Takes out another fag.)
- What's going on Bennett? (He sounds more in control than he actually is.)
- Look we know what you did Buck.
- Whaddya talking about?
- Yer wee phone call.
- I have no idea what yer on about.
- The call that turned in Moira's wee friend in London. Johnny, isn't it?
- What do I know? The radio said MI5 were watching him.
- No the radio said nothing of the sort. Anyway that's all horse s**t. M15 weren't watching him. They couldn't watch their grannies. That bunch. Wankers.
Buck is very puzzled now. Puzzled and very frightened. He knows what the Ra does to touts. Everybody knows what the Ra does to touts.
- OK Bennett. You've had your laugh. Now I'm goin'. And hey - lay off that s**t (nods towards the smouldering joint in Bennett's hand.) It's fryin' your brains.
Bennett is looking at the ground now. His voice is strong and clear and slow.
- Listen very carefully to what I have to say Buck before you go scampering off to your Mammy. Johnny-boy was arrested following information given over the confidential phone line. We knew he was involved with Moira. We knew Moira was involved with you. Put two and two together. Bingo bongo. The eternal triangle. Anyway I recognised your voice on the recording of the call. Put out the MI5 story to cover you. Don't want the wrong people to get the wrong idea now do we? That could be very nasty.
Buck recognises that there are two possible explanations to this weird turn of events.
1. Bennett is involved with the boyos and this conversation is just a preamble to the real conversation, not quite so chummy, that will take place sometime soon with a person or persons unknown further up the food-chain.
2. Bennett actually did hear something on the street and actually did put two and two together and is now going to try to put the squeeze on in order to collect a few quid.
But there is a third possibility. One which is taking an inordinate amount of time making its way through Buck's befuddled brain at the moment. Bennett sets the ball rolling on that process.
- So listen. We think you know more than you let on. Or at least you're in a position to GET to know more.
Who is this 'we' he keeps referring to?
- We are willing to turn a blind eye to your minor transgressions - for now anyway. If you co-operate.
Wait a minute. What's that sound? Like something hitting the ground or maybe a coin falling….no, just a second, it's a penny; it's a penny dropping. And Buck is mulling over the third possibility. Bennett has not just heard something on the streets and he is not with the Ra. He's with the Brits. Not MI5, not MI6, not the RUC. The Brits. Army.
This is good. (Isn't it?) No kangaroo court, no midnight rides up into the mountains, no lonely drives to a deserted beach in County Louth. There is now every chance that Buck will hang onto his kneecaps and other useful body parts. Not to mention his life. Phew. But hold on, if Bennett is with the Brits that is also not so good. NONE of this is actually GOOD. He's speaking again now. Listen.
- Look. We're reasonable, Buck. You're not in too deep. Yet. A couple of wee trips to London. Nothing much. Besides you're only seventeen or eighteen. You'd probably get away with ten years or so.
Wait a minute. (Buck's mind is in overdrive now.) Ten fu**in' years? In the Kesh? Or Crumlin. (Worse.) That means no University. No crack. No boozing. No nookie. For ten years? And whatabout his family? His Mother? Jesus. Whatabout after the ten years? Will he ever get his life back? Bennett is still talking.
- But if you help us. We'll help you. Protect you. Slip you a few quid now and again. In a couple of years time you can slip away to England or the States. Nobody'll be any the wiser.
- Listen Bennett. I'm sorry but you've got the wrong guy. I've broken up with Moira. We're not involved anymore. I'm not involved anymore. I can't help you.
Bennett's eye is steady. His voice has that edge again.
- You can get back with wee Moira, Buck. (This is not a suggestion.) You were meant to be together. (A slight, ironic, smile.) How hard can it be? How unpleasant can it be? Wise up. Keep your eyes and ears open. Slip us a bit of info every so often. Bingo bongo. Job done.
- I can't. I can't do it. To Moira. Betray her, like.
- But you already have, Buck. You already have. That particular ship has sailed. No way back. Nobody else knows. Of course. Not yet, anyway. But that can change. Very quickly. Very easily. So from my point of view you have no choice. We are the only friends you've got now.
Buck is walking down the Grosvenor Road. He looks different. Not so cocky. But not so boyish either. He's figuring out what to say. When he gets home. When he gets on the phone. It has to sound good. Contrite. Convincing. It doesn't even have to be a lie. Not the full truth either, mind you. But not a lie. He reckons he can do it. He's done it before after all. It's evening now. But still bright. Often the nicest time of the day in summer. The Lagan stinks a bit as he passes over the Ormeau Bridge and there is a lingering tang from the gasworks down the road but the trees in the park are in full leaf and there is a softness in the air.
Again, he goes straight to the phone in the hall when he gets home. The sister is nosing around hoping to pick up a gossipy titbit but the determination on his face intimidates her back into the kitchen. He dials the number from memory. It is answered almost immediately. Almost as if she is waiting.
- Hi. (He says and is surprised at the croakiness of his voice.)
- Hi. (She replies. In a whisper.)
- I'm sorry.
- Me too.
- I've missed you so much.
- Me too.
- I want to try again.
- Me too.
- Whatabout the pictures tomorrow?
- What's on?
- Dunno. Whaddya want to see?
- Nothing too good. (He knows she's smiling when she says this.)
- OK. That'll do. Nothing too good.
He's smiling as well now. He knows he can do this. Knows he can get by. With a little help from his (new) friends. He can get by.

What would you do if I sang out of tune?
Would you stand up and walk out on me?
Lend me your ears and I'll sing you a song
I will try not to sing out of key
Oh, baby I get by (Ah, with a little help from my friends)
All I need is my buddies (Ah, with a little help from my friends)
I say I'm gonna get high (Ah, with a little help from my friends)
Oh yeah (Ooh)
What do I do when my love is away?
(Does it worry you to be alone?)
No no
How do I feel at the end of the day?
(Are you sad because you're on your own?)
I tell ya I don't get sad no more

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rUVEFkjqiEE

o primeiro e único Woodstock onde a música e o amor realmente importavam

CHAPTER FORTY- NINEIt is nearly midday before he emerges from bed. His parents have long given up on getting him to go t...
23/11/2022

CHAPTER FORTY- NINE

It is nearly midday before he emerges from bed. His parents have long given up on getting him to go to mass so there are few recriminations (just a couple of non verbal ones - askance looks - that sort of thing) when he mooches into the kitchen and puts the kettle on. In the end, though despite, or indeed because, of his tousled sleepy appearance his mother smiles. It is a long time since he has behaved like a normal teenager.
- What did you get up to last night?
- Not much.
- Hmmmph. (This from his father behind the newspaper.)
- Were you in late? (She knows EXACTLY what time he came in.)
- Not too late. Gizza bit of the paper, Da.
- Hmmmph. (Again. This time accompanied by much rustling.)
The radio is twittering above the cooker. Local station (not a pirate - the Da doesn't like the pirates.) The upcoming twelve o'clock news bulletin is trailed.
- And after this, the headlines at midday.
The DJ plays Shirley Bassey making an absolute hames of George Harrison's 'Something'. Turns it into 'something' it really shouldn't be - a big cabaret type show tune. Buck tuts. Despite himself. He's not a big Beatles fan. But still.
Something in the way he mooooves. (Should be 'she' for a start.)
Attracts me like no other loverrrrr
Something in the waaaay he woooo - oooos me…….
For f**k's sake. (Buck doesn't say 'For f**k's sake.' But he thinks it. Very loudly.) The torture stops mercifully soon.
- And now, over to the newsroom.
- And first of all the latest on that arrest in London. The Metropolitan police confirmed this morning that a man has been arrested in the Earls Court area of the city in connection with last month's car bombs in London. He is being held at Hammersmith police station. The RUC are sending two detectives to help with interviewing the suspect. The man is said to have been under surveillance for some time.
Buck is both relieved and strangely piqued at this last bit of information. A part of him wants the credit (The fame? The notoriety? The attention?) for getting Old Johnny Boy arrested but the one or two sane brain cells he still has left, make him realise that he is much safer NOT being revealed as the police informant on this (or indeed any other) occasion. He allows himself a sigh as he turns to the sports section at the back of the newspaper section his Da has just thrown at him. Derry and Antrim are profiled ahead of the Ulster football championship final at the end of the month. The smart money is on Derry to qualify for the All Ireland semi. Buck reads. But his mind is not on the GAA. Last night at the Astor he bumped into wee Linda again. They smooched again. He walked her home again. Her parents were out again.
She showed him her room. She asked him to stay and she told him to sit anywhere. He looked around and he noticed there wasn't a chair. Wasn't it good. Norwegian…….wait a minute. THAT'S another Beatle song.
- Buck.
- Buck
- Buck. Buck. Are ye deaf or what? (He realises his Da is calling him from the doorway.)
- What? (Surfaces from his Linda-centred reverie.)
- Phone.
- Who is it?
- Ian Paisley. He wants his dog collar back.
- Funny, Da. Who is it?
- How the f**k should I know?
- Davy. Language. (This is Buck's Ma.)
Buck's heart is beating just a little too quickly now. Did he give Linda his phone number? After. Before. When he went home? Maybe it's Moira. (Realises with a lurch that that hurt hasn't really gone away.)
- Hello. Who is it?
- M**f.
- Who?
- M**f Coney. Ye wa**er.
- Oh, yea. M**f. Sorry. What about ye?
- M'all right. Whatcha up to?
- Not a lot.
- Fancy a game of pool?
Strange. A game of pool. Buck hasn't ever really played pool before. Seen it in a pub of course. That's all. But now? On a Sunday? Weird.
- Suppose so. When?
- This afternoon.
- OK. Where?
- My house.
Also, strange. Buck has never been to M**f Coney's house. Knows it's over on the Cregagh. Not a million miles away, but a bit too close to I***n territory for (real) comfort.
- Your house?
- Yea. Why not?
- You have a pool table in your house?
- Yea. Me Da got it from the bar in Omagh.
- Right. OK. I'll see ya later. 'Bout three. OK?
- Yea. Great. See ya. Knockbreda Road. 55.
- Yea. I know where it is. See ya later.
He doesn't ponder it too much. It suits his purposes today to be distracted. And it's nothing too intense. Doesn't overthink it. What's the big deal? He cycles over and arrives shortly after three. M**f's Da is there as well. They have an awkward cup of tea. The three of them together in the silent front room. Then M**f takes him out to the garage and sets up the balls on the pool table. Runs through the rules for good measure. Buck doesn't know exactly why but he feels uncomfortable.
- So what about your man in London? (Says M**f as he leans down to make the break.)
- Yea I know.
- Apparently it was MI5. (M**f always has the extra little nugget of info.)
- Was it?
- Yea. They'd been keeping an eye on him for a while.
- Mmmm. (Buck feels that curious mix of relief and regret. But mostly relief. Again.)
- Yea. Heard that in the newsroom last night. Big story.
M**f breaks the balls. One drops into a corner pocket.
- Stripes. (He declares.)
Plays another shot. Misses.
- How's Moira? Have you heard from her? (Buck is not sure how much M**f knows about his Moira-related issues.)
- No. Not for a while.
- I heard she was over in London.
- Mmmm. (Buck is concentrating on his shot.)
- Is she back yet?
- Dunno.
- Is she coming back?
Buck plays the shot which ricochets all over the table. Then he realises that he is being pumped. For information. M**f Coney, trainee journalist with the Irish News is using his contacts i.e. Buck - who just so happens to be the boyfriend of the sister of a newly arrested IRA terrorist. He's using his contacts to get some gen. Maybe for his first article. Maybe for somebody else's article. Who knows? But in so doing he's breaking a rule that Buck didn't even know existed until that moment. He's using a friendship to give himself a journalistic edge at work. He's also explaining what is behind this bizarre little social encounter.
- Listen M**f. Me and Moira. That's kind of over. Finished. You know?
- Oh. No. I didn't. I'm sorry.
- And. Er. To be honest. I'm not feeling the best, today. Had a few last night. Know what I mean? I think I'll head off home. Get some kip. Alright?
- Yea sure. Sure. (He seems as anxious as Buck to get beyond the awkwardness.) Sure.
On the bicycle ride home Buck is only accosted once. By a tiny little fu**er of about six who yells 'oi, are you a fenian?' from his front garden - which is amazing if you think about it. How did he know? Also, on the bicycle ride home Buck has time to think over events in M**f's house. It doesn't take long. But one thought does linger. M**f asked if Moira was home yet. Which makes him think. Which makes him wonder. Why ask such a question? And then. What if she IS home?
In the hall he lifts the creamy off-white house phone and dials the number. His hand is only shaking slightly. He steadies himself and looks in the mirror as the phone rings. C'mon Buck, keep it together. His chest constricts when he hears her voice. He really didn't expect her to answer and for a moment he cannot speak.
- Hello? Hello? Who is it?
- (Buck can't speak. He can barely breathe.)
- Do you think this is funny, like? Or scary?
- (Buck still can't speak.)
- I'm calling the police. (Moira would never call the police.) I'm calling the police right now.
- (Finally and haltingly.) It's me.
- Buck?
- Yea. When did you get back?
- A day or so ago.
- I need to see you.
- OK
- Now
- OK
Shirley Bassey tries to get back into his head again. But he manages to resist her and conjures up George instead. He recognises at that point that the words have been on his mind all day.

Something in the way she moves
Attracts me like no other lover
Something in the way she woos me
I don't want to lose her now.
You know I believe and how

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CHAPTER FORTY- EIGHTSo he's not quite looking over his shoulder and scoping the surrounding area for suspicious looking ...
23/11/2022

CHAPTER FORTY- EIGHT

So he's not quite looking over his shoulder and scoping the surrounding area for suspicious looking loiterers. But he's a bit jittery. Definitely a bit jittery. He decides to use the phone box on Bedford Street just around the corner from the BBC. He's doing it on his way into town on a Saturday afternoon. Nothing more natural than that. Broad daylight and everything. His normal route to Victor's. Not in the least bit dubious. Of course he doesn't want to have to explain why he's making a call from a phone box, should someone he knows happen by. But he has an excuse prepared just in case. Not sure how it would all fit into a conversation but he has it prepared:
- Saw ye in a phone box by the BBC, Buck. What were ye up to?
Who would even say that? Sounds weird. But anyway, he has his answer ready.
- Had to phone me Ma. She wasn't in when I left the house and I wanted to tell her I'm going to be late home the night.
- Ay, ay. On a promise, Buckie Boy?
And then off they'd go into the familiar conversational territory of laddish banter and boastfulness.
There are two images in his head as he steps into the booth and rummages in his jeans for some change. He doesn't need the change because it is a toll-free call but he feels that he needs to make the whole charade look authentic. So he rummages in his jeans for four pennies all the time focusing on the two images in his head. The two images in his head are:
1. The chipped black paint on the door of the house in Eardley Crescent, Earls Court, London SW5 through which he saw Johnny disappear only a matter of minutes after Moira went in - the same door that he stared at, first in darkness and then in the dawning daylight, for something like six hours. Just a couple of weeks ago. He knows every inch of that door.
2. The simple black and white ad that has been appearing now on television, in newspapers, on the backs of buses, on billboards, on army jeeps and on police cars for most of the year. It is a simple black and white ad that gives just one piece of (crucial) information. The number of the RUC's confidential phone line. 652155.
Buck knows very few phone numbers off by heart. His own. Obviously. Moira's. And maybe The Chair's and Fitz's. But he also knows the RUC's confidential phone line number. (Everybody does). It has been embedded in his brain. By constant, stealthy repetition. He didn't even know he knew it. Until he needed it. And then it just popped into his head. 652155. Boom. Just like that. The decision to use it came so easily and naturally that he didn't doubt its validity for a second. Not for a second did he hesitate. The moral aspects of it didn't even occur to him. He just thought of it. Considered the logistics and the consequences. Got a little bit nervous. And excited. Resolved to do it. Put a plan in place. Just like that. Felt relief. For practically the first time since that weekend in London, he felt relief. Slept well that night.
Now he's dialling the number. Slowly. Carefully. 652155. He expects to be kept waiting. But no. Not at all. Almost immediately someone picks up. It is a female voice.
- RUC Confidential Phone line. Can I help you?
- Well. Don't know. But maybe I can help you.
Jesus. He's getting a buzz out of this. Buck realises with a start that he's getting a fu**in' buzz out of this.
- Go ahead. (Says the female voice.)
- I have a name and an address. And a description.
- Go ahead. (Says the female voice again.)
- A man. About twenty. Tall, slim. Curly hair. Drives a red MG sports car.
- Name?
- Johnny.
- Surname?
- I don't know.
- Go on.
- The address is 37, Eardley Crescent, Earls Court, London SW 5. Ground floor flat. I think. (This last piece of information gleaned only from seeing a light go on in a ground floor window shortly after Moira went in.)
- Yes?
- He was the one yiz missed after the London thing.
- Go on. (She sounds really interested now.)
- That's it. Yiz missed him because he didn't go to the airport. He's English. From London. ( Conversation over. He replaces the phone. Swings open the door and steps back out into a normal Saturday afternoon. Has arranged to meet the lads in Victor's. Maybe have a couple of pints later. Who knows, there might be another house party on somewhere. These are his only thoughts now. Jesus.) (When did he get so cold-blooded?)
There's a lightness in his step now as he makes his way down Bedford Street past the Ulster Hall and he feels something close to normal. The ache in his heart, the toad in his solar plexus, the emptiness in his stomach, the weight of the world on his shoulders. All gone. Amazing. He's whistling a tune now. A tuneless tune. Don't bother trying to figure out what it is. Buck doesn't even know what it is.
In Victor's the others have already gathered. They notice the change in Buck immediately but say nothing about it, yet. They are grinning though.
Boys don't talk about emotions. But they notice them. And react accordingly. The relief that Buck feels is almost infectious. The atmosphere around the table is light. The long summer holidays, stretching out ahead of them, speak of freedom and potential.
-Davy wants to get an old jeep and drive through Spain to Morocco. (Says Gerry C.)
-Davy who?
-Davy Callaghan. You know him? You do. He's in 7LC.
-Oh yea.
- Fu**in' eejit. (Fitz doesn't like it when somebody else has an exciting idea. In such circumstances HE is the one to be grown-up and practical. He continues:)
- He must've been at the waccy baccy again. (They all remember Davy now. Davy from the Loney, they call him. Not one of the crowd. He runs with a wilder bunch from around Albert Street. But their paths cross once in a while.)
- Sounds like a bit of craic. (Says The Chair.)
- Where would you even start? (Fitz still intent on pouring cold water on the idea.)
- I'd say Heysham. And then on down through England til you get to ferry port to France. After that the world's your lobster. (Buck is joining in now. Joining in on the wind-up. Something he hasn't done for ages.)
- No. I don't mean that. (They laugh.) I mean where would you even start organising a thing like that? Smart arse. (Fitz is the logistics expert.) The logistics. I mean.
- Focus on the logistics. (They all chorus.)
- Wankers. (Says Fitz.)
It's a mad plan of course. One with little chance of ever coming together. But it suits the mood for a while. The open road. Balmy evenings. Sleeping on a beach somewhere. There is talk now of the sexy French girls you could meet on the way. Then sexy Spanish girls. Then sexy free-loving hippy girls hitch-hiking by the side of a sun-drenched road - full of gratitude for getting a lift. Easy Rider has a lot to answer for. But they are caught up in the image of themselves. All except Fitz. Savage arrives and nicks a fag from the packet of Gold Bond The Chair has carelessly left on the table.
- What's goin' on. (He says.) What's the craic? Cén scéal?
- We're gonna get an old jeep and head off to Morocco with Davy from the Loney.
- Can any of yiz drive?
They look at each other now. Fitz is grinning. He has some support on the logistics front. He thinks.
- How hard can it be? (Says Gerry C.) Sure my sister can drive, so she can. And she's as thick as champ. It's not rocket science, is it?
- We'll bring your sister with us, then. (The Chair has a thing for Gerry C's sister.)
- She can be our chauffeur. (Savage is on board now.)
- Chau-fesse. (Says Buck, even though the grammar isn't quite right.) Hot ass. (But nobody gets the joke. Maybe because of the grammar mistake.)
- Oi, that's my sister you're talking about there.
They're laughing again now. It's a ridiculous notion. They all know that. But it's fun to fantasise. The Morocco bound banter continues for a while.
- It's a Muslim country, you know. (Fitz is still intent on being the sensible one.)
- So? (Everybody.)
- So. No beer. (There is silence as that information sinks in.)
- We'll just have to stick to the Mary Jane, then. (Buck rescues the moment.) And Arab girls are gorgeous.
- How the f**k do you know that? (Says Fitz.)
- Saw some photos in Paris Match.
- F**k you and f**k Paris Match. You'll never get near an Arab girl. Their Das keep them locked away behind closed doors. They'd cut your dick off if they even suspect you're sniffin' around their daughters. (A bit of a trump card there from Fitz.)
- They'd have to find yours first. (Buck isn't finished.)
- Magnifying glass. (Gerry C's helpful suggestion.)
- Microscope. (Savage adds.) The Arabs developed microscopes - centuries after the Romans wrote about them.
Everybody stops now and looks at Savage. It's interesting information but getting off the point a wee bit. Where the f**k does he get this stuff from?
- So no beer and no Arab girls then. (The Chair's enthusiasm for the venture is waning a bit.) I need another coffee.
- Yea. Me too. (Gerry C.)
- Me three. (Ciarán has just arrived. Tries to swipe one of The Chair's Gold Bond. Too slow. They're gone. Back in his pocket now. Won't reappear for another hour or so.)
The talk now turns to more immediate sources of adventure and fun and beer and girls.
- So. A couple of pints in Keenan's and then round to the Astor, the night. Eh? (Fitz is on much more solid ground, logistically speaking, now.)
- Any parties? (Says Savage.)
- You never know. You never know. (Fitz)
- You never know until ye go! (All.)
And that's that. They're happy. Unattainable fantasies in far off Morocco morph into plans for a totally attainable night out in Belfast. With who knows what adventures to come? And Buck is right in the thick of it. Not a care in the world. Not a thought for anyone but himself. Not a single concern for the havoc he might have unleashed. He feels no guilt. He feels no remorse. He feels no need to question his actions. He feels assuaged. And purged. He's looking forward to enjoying an evening with his friends. For the first time in a long time, he's looking forward to something. Watch him grinning now. Outside, even though it's still only July in Belfast, Norn Iron, the sun is actually shining. A song just oozes up from the pavement.

In the summertime when the weather is hot
You can stretch right up and touch the sky
When the weather's fine
You got women, you got women on your mind
Have a drink, have a drive
Go out and see what you can find

This video clip was made in 1970, and is the original Mungo Jerry line up that recorded In The Summertime, this is not to be confused with the version that h...

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