Strumpet City Read Online Free PDF Page B

quickened. She was filled with happiness.
    He helped her on to the tram, waved, and was gone. She sat once more on the outside, hearing the trolley’s conversational humming and feeling the wind against her cheeks and hair as the tram battled its sturdy way towards Kingstown.
    When the night sergeant came in at fifteen minutes past eight he put his helmet on the desk and looked around the office without a word of greeting for the young policeman who had risen behind his desk. The sergeant was a burly man with a very red face. He breathed heavily and mopped his brow. The policeman said:
    ‘Good evening, Sergeant.’
    The sergeant looked at the coat-rack and then at the fireplace which was littered with cigarette stubs and empty cartons.
    ‘Has Dunleavy gone?’
    ‘Sergeant Dunleavy left sharp at eight.’
    ‘I see,’ the night sergeant said.
    He loosened the neck of his tunic and, turning his back on the policeman, stared out of the barred window.
    ‘You were up at the hospital?’ the policeman asked.
    The sergeant sighed heavily. ‘Aye. And Dunleavy knew that.’
    ‘He said he was in a bit of a hurry this evening.’
    ‘He might have waited the few minutes. I did it for him often enough.’
    The policeman did not want any part in the quarrels of his superiors. So he said:
    ‘How was the youngster?’
    The sergeant turned away from the window and looked at him.
    ‘It’s what we suspected. Meningitis.’
    The poor little scrap,’ the policeman said, seeing the red face was tight with pain.
    ‘They’ll send for me here if there’s a change.’
    ‘Please God it’ll be for the better.’
    ‘No,’ the sergeant said, ‘he’ll die. They always do.’
    ‘Is he the youngest?’
    ‘The second youngest.’
    ‘It’s a heavy cross for you, Sergeant,’ the policeman said.
    ‘It’s bad for a father, but worse again for the mother,’ said the sergeant.
    ‘It’s hard on the two of you.’
    The sergeant went to his desk. He wrote Sergeant J. Muldoon on top of the duty sheet and then with an effort began to examine the papers in front of him. The policeman worked in silence. He could not think of anything to say.
    ‘What’s in?’ the sergeant asked him. He was finding it difficult to read the reports for himself. The policeman gave him particulars. Then he said:
    ‘We have a guest in cell No. 3.’
    ‘What’s he there for?’
    The policeman told him about Rashers.
    ‘How long is he there?’
    ‘Since early afternoon.’
    ‘I’ll go and see him.’
    Activity helped. The sergeant took the heavy key and went down a passage. The cell was in gloom. Rashers was stretched on the bed, asleep. The sergeant stood over him. Rashers’ heavy breathing reminded him of the child in the hospital, struggling for the life that minute by minute was being prised from his grasp. In an hour or two they would send for him to say that the end was near. He would stand and watch helplessly. There were no handcuffs to hold Death at bay. You could not lock Death up in a cell or let it off with a caution. It was the biggest thief of all.
    The sergeant shook Rashers by the shoulder.
    ‘Wake up,’ he commanded.
    Rashers stirred and sat up. He blinked at the strange sergeant.
    ‘A new one, be God,’ he said.
    ‘What’s this about refusing to give your name?’
    ‘I gave the only name I ever knew of,’ Rashers said. ‘Is it lies you want me to tell?’
    ‘What name was that?’
    ‘Rashers Tierney.’
    ‘Who christened you Rashers?’
    ‘The first woman I remember.’
    ‘Your mother?’
    ‘I don’t remember her.’
    ‘Who then?’
    ‘A little woman by the name of Molloy that lived in the basement of 3 Chandlers Court. I came to her at the age of four.’
    ‘From where?’
    ‘They never found out. Maybe God left me under a dustbin lid.’
    ‘Where do you live now?’
    ‘In Chandlers Court. When Mrs. Molloy died she had to leave it. They carried her out. That was when I was fifteen or so. They’ll do the same with