“Yeh know young Fitzer, the pervert from Mocol Street?” asks the Sergeant, and I defer to
his right not to reply to my question, not at least until the relatives are told.
I say, “who doesn’t?” wondering how Fitzer had added to his troubles.
“Well, as life would have it,” he explains, “Said Fitzer was up at the lock, trying to do
a bit of flashing in his raincoat. Some of the schoolgirls take a short cut that way.”
“Don’t I know it,” I say. “We’re always telling them it’s not safe up there, but they
meet boys along the canal.”
“You’ve been known to take your own mot up there!” The Sergeant scores a point.
“In the evening,” I hasten to explain, “Just courting. Haven’t been there in ages. Last
time we were there she said the quacking ducks would give her a headache.”
“Cured yeh, I bet,” he says with a laugh.
“Not at all,” I say. “We prefer to go to the pictures. Mind you, she likes the walk up
there on a Sunday evening.”
The Sergeant sups his pint and I realize I am rambling. I pay attention so he can
continue.
“Fitzer sees this girl coming alone down the path. Prime target. He gets his buttons
undone and stands there bollock naked to the world. This girl walks past.”
“How do yeh know all this?” I ask.
“Bugger confessed. He was in a state; blurted it all out after I gave him a knuckle
sandwich. Then I interviewed other parties to fill the gaps.”
“Carry on,” I say, understanding that his source is, as it were, from the horse’s mouth.
“The girl casts a glance. “Big for a monkey” she says and walks past.
“Bitch!” Fitzer shouts. He’s set out to impress and does not take kindly to her
disparaging remark. “May your tits fall off and may the devil take yeh.”
“Fair enough,” she says and jumps into the canal inside the lock.”
“Into the lock?”
I’m horrified, for the lock is deep and would be hard to get out of at the best of times.
In this cold weather, a trap that only a brass monkey would endure.
“Into the lock,” he confirms. “It’s the Howlette girl and she’s up to commit suicide.
At the point they meet, the Fitzer incident is for her a minor distraction. Her mind is
set and there’s no turning her. Into the lock she goes.”
“Jasus,” I say by way of helping the conversation along.
The Sergeant’s face creases into a tired smile as he continues, “Fitzer of course, is one
of these types who thinks the world is all about themselves, and he thinks his remarks
have led the girl to throw herself off into the lock.”
“Jasus,” I say and nod to the Barman for a further two pints.
He’s ear wigging but goes to it, still listening.
“Fitzer goes mental. He throws off his raincoat, cap and Wellington boots and dives buck
naked into the lock,” the Sergeant continues.
“To save the girl,” I say admiringly.
“On the way down, Fitzer remembers he can’t swim and just before he hits the water he
starts to shout for help. He hits the water and now two of them are drowning in the
lock.”
“Jasus,” I say and pass a tenner as the Barman arrives with the perfect pint by two.
He holds back on the change, and gives it to me later, at this point trying to minimize
his interruption of the Sergeant’s story.
“Two deaths then?” I attempt to summarize.
“Fitzer is not resigned to his fate and the water is freezing his balls off. He’s in a
panic,” the Sergeant contradicts.
Obviously the story did not end there.
“And the girl?” I ask.
“Dignity personified. Hands folded on the chest, treading water, preparing, getting
ready to pass off this mortal coil and end her troubles.”
“Jasus,” I say.
“But Fitzer is making a holy show of himself roaring and crying, and of course there is
no one except himself and the Howlette girl.”
“What happens?” I prompt.
“Eventually she says, ‘feck this for a game of soldiers,’ and swims over and hits Fitzer
a box when he comes up for air. Fitzer grabs hold of her and shouts, “we’ll drown
together.”
“I’d not be seen dead with the likes of you,” she replies and hits him another box. Then
she gives up. ‘Feck this’ she says and drags Fitzer over to the gate of the lock. She
takes her scarf off. She was well dressed given the state of the weather, and had a long
scarf. This she ties to Fitzer and secures him to the gate of the lock.”
“And gets back to suicide?” I ask.
“No,” the Sergeant smiles. “The moment was past. Once she got annoyed she was alive
again, no way she’d be able to commit suicide with her change of mood.”
“Makes sense,” I agree.
“And there was no way she was sure Fitzer would be rescued. Last thing she could stand
was to be found dead in the same lock as your man.”
“I can understand that, and him without a stitch on him,” I agree again.
“So nothing for it. She has to rescue Fitzer. In time she manages this, and they end up
bedraggled on the bank.”
“Get dressed,” she says to Fitzer when he comes round, explaining, “I’ll not be seen dead
or alive up here with a frizzled up naked man. My good name would be wrecked, especially
if it was the likes of you.”
The Sergeant savours his pint, and then continues the tale.
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