Volume 1 (1999/2000)
Issue 1 (March 1999)
Issue 2 (Nov. 1999)
Issue 3 (Dec. 1999)
Issue 4 (Feb. 2000)
Issue 5 (March 2000)
Issue 6 (April 2000)
Issue 7 (May 2000)

Volume 2 (2000/2001)
Issue 1 (Sept. 2000)
Issue 2 (Oct. 2000)
Issue 3 (Jan. 2001)
Issue 4 (March 2001)
Issue 5 (April 2001)
Issue 6 (May 2001)

Volume 3 (2001)
Issue 1 (Sept. 2001)
Issue 2 (Nov. 2001)

Categories
Sport: 1 2 3
Lifestyles: 1 2 3
Commentary: 1 2 3
Review: 1 2 3
Writing: 1 2 3
Event: 1 2 3

Dead Meat

Barry Lysaght
Glenstal Abbey School, Murroe, Co. Limerick

There was no doubt about it," Joe thought as he sat in the car and waited for his wife and children to join him: "Margot was simply wonderful. Sure I’d be hard pressed to find another one like her". He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel impatiently as another police siren wailed through the night.

"Friggin’ pigs" he muttered to himself, looking around fervently for his wife. "Too bloody many of the feckers". He’d want to be home soon, to get the dinner on, and knowing the way the pigs had been acting up the past few weeks, there’d be fierce traffic to beat. He beeped his horn.

"We’re here, we’re here, calm down". The doors opened with a gust of cold night air as Joe’s family got back into the car amid a hubbub of chatter. Joe turned to his wife.
"What’s the story, love"
"Just an upset tummy."
"No poisoning?"
"God no, nothing like that. Sure we’ve got the Calpol at home, we’ll be grand. Now can we please just go - I’m starving."
Without hesitation, Joe gladly fired the car back into life and pulled out of the doctor’s driveway.

The town was awash with confusion and flashing beacons. Six or seven Garda cars were pulled up outside the hairdresser’s salon, which had been cordoned off. Several Garda’ were shouting excitedly into their walkie-talkies and a small group of locals had gathered at the street-corner, surveying the spectacle sombrely.

Joe pulled up at the end of the cordon, and rolled down his window.
"Ah hello there sergeant, how are ye? What seems to be the problem here?" he inquired of a nearby man in uniform.
"Ah, Jaysus Joe, the hairdresser and her sister are after disappearin’ last night, and there’s no trace of ‘em anywhere. Fierce stuff."
"Anything I can do to help, sergeant?"
The Garda heaved a sigh.
"Just stay calm Joe, I suppose. And a bit of advice - watch your back, there’s mad folk about".
Joe grinned.
"That I will sergeant, that I will. You can be well sure that big Joe McHugh knows how to handle himself. We’ll see you later so!" The Garda looked at him confusedly as Joe rolled up the window and drove out into the inky blackness of the night.

"Daddy Daddy, can we stop at the chipper?" a young boy with blonde hair piped up in the back seat. Joe regarded him in the rear view mirror.
"No Patsy, we’re having friends over for dinner tonight, and we’re having....."
"STEW!" the children droned exasperatedly, interrupting him. "We always have friggin’ stew" the boy’s sister whined.
"Daddy’s little secret for Daddy’s little pumpkins" Joe cooed, chuckling to himself.
"It’s very good for you, and ‘twill make you a big strong man like your Daddy, Patsy", his wife chorused. The two children clicked their tongues and folded their arms grumpily, and sullenly didn’t say another word for the rest of the trip.

".....and the search continues tonight for the two missing Flahavan sisters in-" Joe turned off the radio with a click. "Media hoors" he grunted, his face red and sweaty from leaning over the steaming pot. He took off the lid, and inhaled the raw smell of hot stew deeply into his nostrils. He smiled. There was just about enough left over from last night, and with a bit of luck, he’d have more for the next dinner. Simply wonderful.

"Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!" Joe was suddenly startled from his daydream as the door flew open and his son ran in.
"Close that shaggin’ door, Patsy!" Joe bellowed, snorting heavily from the shock of it all.
"I told you never to disturb me when I’m cookin’ de bleedin’ stew!" Joe’s eyes were blazing with surprised fury. Patsy cringed with fear, equally surprised, and feebly mumbled:
"I only wanted to know who we’re having for dinner." Joe’s face turned puce, and his piggy eyes squinted, his face contorted, stung with rage.
"What the -!!!!"
Suddenly he relaxed, a calm descended on him and he chuckled.
"You want to know who’s coming for dinner, ye little rascal, ye! ‘tis the sergeant and his wife, Pats. They’ll be here at half eight, so run along now to bed when you’ve had your Calpol, there’s a good boy. And Patsy -" The boy paused at the door.
"Close the door behind you when you leave. Your Daddy doesn’t like other people in his kitchen when he’s makin’ stew, sure he doesn’t!"
Patsy giggled. "No he doesn’t, Daddy", he chirped, and left the room.

Sergeant Gerry and his wife Camillus arrived promptly on time, and were ushered into the house with warm welcomes and glasses of Martini. Both commented on how well Big Joe was looking, and asked how the butcher’s trade was holding up.
"Ah sure I’m puttin’ food on the table, aren’t I, ha?" Joe laughed. "C’mon in now, or the stew’ll go cold on us."

The dinner passed well, and everyone agreed that there is nothing quite like a good hot stew on the winter evenings. Pleasantries exchanged, the conversation soon wound its way around to the story of the missing Flahavan sisters, who had still not been found. Gerry was adamant.
"I’m certain we’re really close to it now - I can sense it; we’re really near."
Camillus sighed: "I know darling, I know. But you know what they say - sometimes the answer you’re looking for can be right under your -"
"Stew - anyone? Will ye have another bit? Sure go on."
"No thanks Bridie, we’re grand now, so we are. Me tongue is sayin’ yes, but me stomach’s sayin’ no!"

Gerry shook his head.
"I just can’t understand what sort of a sick sonofabitch would do a thing like this, Joe. What on earth could possess someone to just go out and kill two innocent young ‘uns -"
"Now darling, we don’t know that for certain....."
Joe shook his finger.
"No now Camillus, the man has a point. But all I’ll say on the matter is that in the world we live in today, it’s little surprise what a man will do for a full wallet - or a full stomach! Ho ho ho!!" he guffawed, smacking his belly with his hands.
Gerry frowned.
"You’re saying it’s acceptable Joe?"
Joe smiled, and downed a mouthful of his warm beer.
"It’s all a question of taste, Gerry", he whispered with a wink. Gerry’s frown turned into a grimace and he jumped up and tore his napkin from his collar.
"Right Camillus, come on, we’re going. I don’t feel well", he ordered. Joe stood up slowly, and with a smile, looked Gerry firmly in the eye.
"Oh no you’re not Sergeant O’ Brien. Nobody leaves my table without having the manners to finish the meal I worked hard to make for them. Do you have any idea how long it took me to get a fine lump of a stew like this together, sergeant?"

Camillus began to cry. Gerry’s eye contact wavered in the face of the big man.
"Joe, for God’s sake....."
"Do you know, sergeant, whose blood, sweat and tears have actually gone into the stew you just lashed into yourself?", Joe smirked. Gerry turned, his stomach retching with disgust as vomit stirred in his gullet.
"McHugh, you sick fu-"
"That’s right, sergeant. Margot and Freda Flahavan; hacked, chopped, sliced, diced, stewed and in your stomach sir. Simply wonderful, wouldn’t you agree?"
"W-what in G-God’s holy name are you g-going to with us?" Camillus screamed. Joe’s smile broadened as he grasped his steak knife.
"Why, I’m going to give ye a bit of advice an old friend gave me the other day. What was it again? Oh yeah: ‘watch your back - there’s mad folk about’. Jaze Gerry, isn’t it only awful how some people can’t practice what they preach?"

Joe heaved a wheezy sigh and leaned back against the shelf just under the big wooden ‘McHugh’s Butchers’ sign. It was a slow day. Just as well, he thought, his stomach had been givin’ him all sorts of bother through the night, and too many customers would get his heart jumpy. Joe winced, rubbed his shirt, and sat down with a gasp.
"Ah hello Joe, how are ye?"
Joe looked up slowly.
"Ah hello Father, are ye well?" he muttered through gritted teeth, as a bead of sweat appeared on his forehead. The priest frowned with concern.
"Are you sure you’re alright, Joe?" he inquired. Joe hauled himself to his feet, hot sharp pains searing across his chest.
"Of course I’m OK Father", he grimaced, "will we be seeing you for dinner this even-urrrrrrr" With a loud groan, Joe collapsed onto the floor clutching his gut in agony, and blacked out.

Joe’s eyes strained open, a sharp electronic beeping burning his ears. A glaring whiteness stretched out above him, and when he tried to lift his hand, he felt a tug. He looked. A drip.
"Friggin’ wonderful" he thought, "the friggin’ hospital". He rolled his head to the left, to gain sight of his new surroundings. He felt drowsy, but tried hard to focus his vision.
Near the door, a group of white-coated doctors were chattering excitedly to a pair of uniformed Garda’. They were waving about what looked like some sort of scan results. Joe could just about make out a few words: "sickening..... hairdressers..... coke..... poisoning..... unbelievable..... murderer"

Stung with panic by the last word, Joe let out a deep phlegmy bellow and lurched forward from the bed with all his might in a bid to escape. The doctors spun around in surprise, and ran quickly to the bed and pinned down Joe’s flailing arms and legs. He thrashed about with all his might like a fish on a hook, gnashing his teeth savagely and roaring with rage. A nurse hurriedly filled a syringe and plunged it deep into his shoulder. Joe groaned.

"That should keep him for a while".

A warm foamy slob of saliva dribbled from the corner of Joe’s mouth in futile wretchedness as he watched the Garda telephone the station with the news.

‘They’ll be here any minute now, the smarmy feckers’, thought Joe, his consciousness slowly drifting away from him. ‘Who would have thought - Joe McHugh done in by a stew - I’ll never live it down. And all because of a bit of friggin’ food poisoning - I would have got away with it!’

He sighed drowsily.

‘Ah sure, what did I expect, killin’ that young druggie Margot Flahavan was bound to get some of her junkie crap in me and do me ill. Not feckin’ thinkin’ at all’.
His eyelids drooped, heavy with sedatives. Joe managed a feeble smirk.
"Shouldn’t have taken the sergeant’s friggin’ advice," he thought.
"Too friggin’ busy watchin’ my back than watchin’ what I was doin’, heh heh heh, urrrgh....."

Back to the top