Tale 21

THE BARE BONES Of ITS PROVENANCE

The pages following this introduction, which, unlike similar such literary devices in recent years, will actually precede the work it is meant to introduce, are photographs of the inner workings of a Special Branchman’s mind as shown by the layout and contents of his Notebook.

This Notebook came into the custody of the Hungry Brigade Collective by a circuitous route, by what one old subversive, early last century, might have called a commodious vicus of recirculation. Which is to say, back in the Sixties, those Good Old Days, there was an altercation outside 7 Gardiner Place between Branchmen, Pah Wah and The Slug, and Republican Activists, Frank O’Donnell and Mick Murphy.

After the Branchmen had fled to their souped-up Morris Minor and quitted the scene the Republicans scoured the battlefield for the usual souvenirs such encounters at that time produced; knocked-out teeth, pools of anaemic blood, the occasional prosthetic limb or auxiliary sexual contrivance.

As it happened there were teeth aplenty, just lying around; nicotine and caffeine-stained, black-rotted gnashers, obviously Dublin Castle issue, Harriers for the use of. And claret-stained acres of tarmac and pavers. As such nothing much to write home about. Just par for the course.

There was only one very unusual item, a pass remarkable prize of great value, something Blackie Byrne himself had lauded at a Castle Retraining Course for Incorrigibles as “The intelligent intelligence officer’s best friend. No, not his rubber hose! And not that either, yez bunch of perverts. His Notebook, for Jaysus sweet sake, his Book Of Names!”

And not just any old Notebook this, that Mick Murphy scooped up and opened to read by the light of the moon and an old Dublin Lamppost. Oh no, not a scrap of that at all, at all, to be sure. This was the cream of the crop. On the first open page, Murphy could see the motto: This Book Belongs To Festy Spratt (Detective, Special Branch, Dublin Castle, Ireland, British Isles, Europe, The World, The Solar System, The Milky Way, The Universe). The Slug. This was the infamous Slug’s very own Notebook. His Book Of Names.

A quick butcher’s through the pages showed up the value of this exceptional piece of battle booty. Everybody the Slug considered to be anybody in the subversive world was there, including members of Sinn Fein, or smaller left-wing parties and even some flaxen-haired Gaeleens the Slug secretly wished to dance with at any crossroads of dev Valera’s choosing. And he had also included all their relevant details; names, addresses, occupations, and distinguishing marks. Even Pat Murphy’s limp was there for the intelligence community to mark and wonder at. And Noel Reddican’s trademark misspelt surname, that was there too. Mick Murphy quickly realised he was holding a veritable treasure trove: invaluable source material for innumerable future postgraduate studies of our time’s one and only truly glorious revolution. Historical gold dust.

“There’s only one place for this wee beauty,” he said to O’Donnell. “Jimmy Clarke’s secret drawers.” The same drawers which were once rummaged in by the Slug and some of his colleagues claiming that they were looking for the ‘real invoices,’ of the uncompromising Carrickmore Republican.

That was handy enough, given that the Peacock was barely three minutes sprint away. And, anyway, having inflicted serious GBH on Pah Wah and the Slug, the heroes were in fine fettle for murdering a few more quick pints.

So Detective Spratt’s Book Of Names was held for some years in Clarke’s drawers. Then passed on in secrecy to other hands and other drawers until, much further down the line, it came briefly into our possession. Before passing it on in our turn we photographed the pages of it which now we publish here for the amazement, amusement, education and edification of a select few among the Irish Intelligentsia.

And that same intelligentsia, the Peacock intelligentsia, became the hereditary keepers of Spratt’s masterpiece for they were now by right of ownership descended from Heremon, Ir and Heber and the fabled poets and seers of old. These gifted seers were greatly venerated and feared for it was they who preserved the traditions, laws, pedigrees and history of a great race.  And now blended into this history and epic battles of yore going back to the great revolt of the pre-Celtic subjects under the leadership of Cairbre Cinn Cait, ‘the Cat-head’ which was crushed by Tuathal the Gaelic prince, is the battle of Gardiner Place which told the epic story of how Spratt’s book was carried off as war booty in the last great Irish Conquest. Such became the fame of this battle that it relegated the epic Tain Bo Cualgne telling of how Queen Maeve of Connacht, made war on Conchobar, the king of Ulster and his famous Red Branch warriors led by Cu Chulainn into a minor affray.

As time passed it became impossible to decide whether the numbers who claimed to have fought in the GPO in 1916 could match the number of people who claimed to have taken part in the battle for Spratt’s book on Gardiner Place. The book, now considered to be as important as the Book of Kells, was taken from its top secret hiding place in the Peacock by Clarke every year on the anniversary of the war and ecstatically perused by all. Eventually, this practice had to cease as a number of groups began claiming custodianship and some devotees even tried to write their names on the hallowed pages. Disputes also arose as to the actual date of the action, the actual site of the action, the details of the battle itself, who threw the first blow, was there a false surrender and was the action approved by HQ!