… IT WAS AN UNUSUALLY mild evening, and the two couples decided to walk to the pub. Tanner’s Pub was full and the Friday night songfest competition was getting underway, a weekly event known in Glenarm more for its nonsense and tomfoolery than for any singing skills. The bar itself was below street level and the walls of chiseled rock constantly seeped cold water, to be carried off by the floor’s system of small gutters that fed the runoff to a sump pump.
The main excuse for opening a bar in this cold, damp hole was that the place was purported to be the site of an ancient Druid prison, with iron shackles still attached to the walls. The little club’s genesis was invented by Tanner, and the shackles were as faux as all the other artifacts along the walls. The tourists generally knew that as well as the locals but they all loved the place just the same.
‘‘All right, now,’’ the master of ceremonies said. ‘‘It’s open night at the mic. So wet yer whistles and don’t be shy—all are welcome to join in. First prize in tonight’s competition is a pint for everybody at yer table.’’
A loud cheer rolled across the room, and the servers were kept busy delivering new rounds of Guinness. The local band was introduced, and soon their fiddle, flute, guitar and tambourine filled the pub with sad songs about making love and merry songs about making war. The master of ceremonies joined in with his accordion, which he played badly. It was no use to complain; the accordion player was Mr. Tanner.
‘‘Ye know a lot of old ballads, Tom,’’ Peg said. ‘‘Why don’t ye go up there and sing us one? Ye might win first prize.’’
‘‘Aye, I might just do that. But let me build up some courage first,’’ Tom replied, waving his empty mug at a passing waiter. ‘‘Besides, I always like to go last.’’
‘‘I’ll join you in that, Tom,’’ said Omar, as he held his empty glass high.
‘‘Well, while you boys are taking on more courage, I need to spend a penny,’’ Kathleen said as she got up from the table. ‘‘Care to join me, Peg?’’ Peg smiled and got up to follow Kathleen.
At the line of sinks in the ladies’ room, Kathleen asked Peg, ‘‘So what do you think of him?’’
‘‘What do I think of him?’’ Peg replied hesitantly. ‘‘Well, he seems a good man, generous too. The question is what do ye think of him.’’
Kathleen tried to be rational. ‘‘Well I have to admit, I’m smitten. I mean he’s charming and handsome. . . but. . .’’
Peg giggled, ‘‘Well he’s sure got the attention of all the girls in the pub tonight. Why there’s been a regular parade goin’ by our table.’’
‘‘Don’t you see?’’ Kathleen continued. ‘‘He’s different from us. That’s part of his attraction. But could he really fit in here when the novelty’s worn off? And more important. Why would he ever even want to fit in here?’’
‘‘So what are ye saying, Katie?’’
‘‘I guess I’m trying to say, I’d like to see him, date him, whatever you want to call it. But that’s it. I mustn’t let myself think that we could have a real relationship. Could ever fall in love. Oh God, I think I already have.
A few moments later as they walked down the short hallway from the ladies’ room, they heard a male voice singing.
‘‘Is that Tom?’’ Peg asked.
‘Sounds like,’’ Kathleen replied.
The two women just barely got seated when Tom wrapped up a rousing version of an old rebel classic. The audience rose and applauded their appreciation. Over the din, Tanner yelled into the mic, ‘‘It looks like Mulcahy’s stolen the show. Last chance, now! Anyone else want to give it a try?’’
Omar stood, walked forward and jumped easily onto the stage.
He looked a bit menacing with his black turtle neck and black pants and dark features. Then he smiled broadly and said, ‘‘My name is Omar Jabri. I’m from Persia. I would like to sing you a song.’’
‘‘Well, I’ll be!’’ Kathleen said as she and Peg nudged each other.
Omar began to sing with one hand holding the mic to his mouth and the other gesturing. The song was in a language other than English. It had a lively pace and the customers were toe tapping. The musicians didn’t know the tune but were adding a note or two, here and there, and everyone seemed to be enjoying the performance.
Omar had a deep rich voice, and was quite expressive. Kathleen couldn’t know what the song was about, but Omar’s facial expressions, gestures, tempo and intonation suggested to her that this might be a powerful patriotic song—probably about victory at war.
Omar’s song ended abruptly, fortissimo, with a stamp of the foot and then a bow. The room jumped to its feet and applauded as he made his way back to the table, grinning at Kathleen and wearing a light sweat on his brow.
‘‘Well, now,’’ Tanner said on mic. ‘‘Do we have a first place winner here?’’ The audience shouted, whistled, and clapped their approval.
‘‘Care to tell us what that song was about, sir?’’ Tanner asked.
Omar stood and spoke loud enough to be heard across the noisy room, ‘‘Thank you. I enjoyed that very much. The song tells the story about a warrior who lives only for battle,’’ Omar said, looking intently at Kathleen as he added, ‘‘until he meets the woman of his dreams.’’ In a softer voice he said, ‘‘And then he has a new reason to live.’’ The message was obvious to everyone in the pub and a roll of ‘‘Ahhh!’’ reached across the room.
‘‘Thank you, sir!’’ Tanner said, and signaled the waiter to bring a round of drinks to the table.
‘‘Somehow I knew that song had something to do with war,’’ Kathleen said proudly.
‘‘It doesn’t,’’ Omar said, laughing. ‘‘I just made that up. It’s actually an old folk song about plucking chickens.’’
Tom roared. ‘‘Oh, that’s perfect! Plucking chickens instead of war, is it? Perfect!’’ He slapped his thigh and laughed until the tears rolled. Everyone else at the table laughed along with him.
After finishing her pint, Peg said, ‘‘I think we should be leavin’ these two children on their own now, Tom.’’
‘‘Eh?’’ Tom said.
‘‘We should be gettin’ on home,’’ Peg said insistently.
‘‘What fer?’’ Tom wanted to know. ‘‘Shank of the evenin’.’’ ‘‘You know. . .’’ Peg said, as she nodded toward Kathleen and Omar across the table.
‘‘Oh!’’ Tom replied, understanding finally what Peg was saying. ‘‘Yes, of course! Come on, woman. We’re off.’’ He turned to the waiter. ‘‘The bill,’’ he called out.
‘‘Nonsense,’’ Omar replied. ‘‘My treat.’’
‘‘Eh?’’ Tom said. ‘‘Oh.’’ The beer had gone to his head. ‘‘All right, then. Yer treat.’’
‘‘Is he going to be all right?’’ Kathleen asked, some concern showing on her face.
‘‘Nothin’ a little fresh air won’t take care of,’’ Peg replied. ‘‘Come on, then, Tom. Let’s be goin’, now.’’
‘‘Aye,’’ Tom said. ‘‘Let’s be goin’. You two be good, now, ye hear?’’
‘‘Yes,’’ Kathleen replied. ‘‘We’ll be good. And you mind your step.’’
‘‘Oh, aye,’’ Tom said glumly, with a wave of his arm, as though disgusted with the suggestion that he needed to be careful. Peg winked at Kathleen and gestured that she’d be in charge. The two left, Tom walking just a bit unsteadily.
‘‘Good people,’’ Omar said.
‘‘Yes. I’m lucky to have them,’’ Kathleen said with a sigh.
Some time later, after another round and some small talk, Kathleen said, ‘‘It’s getting late. I hate to be the one to say it, but we ought to be getting home ourselves.’’
‘‘Are you sure I won’t be in the way at your house? I could get a room in town. ’’
‘‘Of course not,’’ Kathleen said. ‘‘No trouble at all. Come on.’’
Omar paid the bill and the two walked out the door and headed home. Kathleen had her arm wrapped around Omar’s and nothing was said for a some time.
‘‘It’s been a long while,’’ Omar said.
Kathleen looked up at him, a question in her eyes. ‘‘A long while?’’
‘‘Since I just relaxed and had a good time. With no agenda.’’
‘‘Agenda?’’
‘‘Sometimes it’s business. Sometimes . . . pleasure.’’
‘‘No. . . business. . . on your mind tonight?’’ Kathleen asked, with a mischievous grin.
A car roared around the corner from behind. It screeched to a stop at the curb. Kathleen saw three men inside, their faces covered by improvised masks.
‘‘Kathleen O’Toole! The Arab fucker!’’ one of the voices called out.
‘‘Hey, Arab! Get the feck out o’ this place! Keep yer filthy hands off our women!’’
Kathleen flew to the side of the car, Omar not far behind her. She reached through the driver’s open window, grabbed the man by his throat and pushed him hard. Then she reached in and ripped the keys out of the ignition. The stunned driver squawked, ‘‘No, no! Let us go! We were just havin’ a bit of fun!’’
A rear door flew open and another of the car’s occupants jumped out, also masked and with a gun in his hand. ‘‘All right, then!’’ he screamed, his voice high-pitched with hysteria. ‘‘Who wants it first?’’ He was waving his gun back and forth.
Omar took a quick step toward the assailant and kicked. The tip of his boot caught the man’s wrist and the gun flew high in the air and down the street behind him. The young man grabbed his wrist with his free hand and howled in pain. The last of the three jumped out of the car and charged at Kathleen, a police night stick high above his head. He never saw Omar coming.
Omar jumped behind the youth and threw a choke hold on him. The night stick fell. ‘‘You want this one, or can I have him?’’
Kathleen walked up to the immobilized attacker and ripped off his mask. ‘‘Arnie McCloud!’’ she said in amazement. To Omar she said, ‘‘Father’s a policeman.’’
‘‘What the hell are you up to?’’ she asked the boy and slapped him across the face. ‘‘Does your father know you’ve got his nightstick?’’
‘‘Behind you!’’ Omar yelled, just as the one with the injured wrist was about to jump on Kathleen.
She spun on one heel, grabbed this one by his good wrist, and swung him in midair like a wheel. He landed hard and screamed in pain.
‘‘You’re gonna have to do without that hand for a while, now aren’t you, boyo?’’ she said.
She ripped off his mask. ‘‘Tommy Frazier! Another policeman’s son! Was that your father’s gun you had, then?’’
Kathleen turned back to the car. The driver, now cowering in the front seat begged, ‘‘Please, don’t hurt me!’’
Kathleen dangled the keys outside the window just out of his reach. ‘‘Mask off, if you please,’’ she demanded. With hands shaking, the driver complied.
‘‘And I could of guessed. Another policeman’s boy. Fatty Glaird.’’
Omar was still holding Arnie around the neck. ‘‘Let the little boy go, Omar, before he pees his pants.’’ Kathleen threw the keys at Fatty’s face and turned away. She walked to where the gun landed, picked it up and put it in her pocket.
‘‘Home, then?’’ she said to Omar. They continued on their way as if nothing had happened.
The car sped off, its three occupants shocked at the fight they’d been in.
‘‘That was fun!’’ said Kathleen. ‘‘Those boys have been needing their comeuppance for a long time.’’
‘‘Whew, remind me to never get you mad at me,’’ said Omar.
Kathleen laughed, ‘‘I wasn’t really angry you know, that was just show biz. You sure kept yourself cool though. Very impressive.’’
‘‘That type of stupid behavior doesn’t bother me,’’ said Omar. ‘‘It’s happened before. I was concerned about you getting hurt.’’
Then he chuckled, ‘‘I can see I was worried for nothing.’’ Omar pulled her close to his side, and they continued to walk, their laughter and chatter echoed off the silent, darkened homes along the way.
