CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
Bus Hijackers

Paco, the largest of the ruffians on the bus began tossing cider bottle caps at an elderly, distinguished-looking gent sitting halfway along the aisle engrossed in his copy of the Irish Times.

The first missile, bouncing off the page he was reading, startled him. A second one bounced off his grey head, much to the amusement of the thug's companions. They guffawed and tittered loudly. The gent ignored the taunts and continued to give his attention to his paper.

Homofeeb, furious, left his seat and turned to face the rude quartet. He wagged an admonishing finger at them.

"I suppose you think it's good fun to take advantage of people whom you consider are not in a position to retaliate."

The rebuke only brought sniggers from the toughs and in that moment it dawned on Cúchulainn that all four, as well as being coarse of manner, had red hair and freckles. A short pulse of battle rage surged through him.

"Ah, Jakers," said the short fat one, looking derisively at Homofeeb, "wouldja looka de cut o' yer man!"

"Tell us, Petal," croaked Slim the tall skinny one, "d'ye make all yer own frocks? Does dem legs go all de way up?"

"Listen Sweetie," added Mugser the puny one, a pasty-faced runt with missing front teeth, "is dem tights or stockin's yer wearin'?"

Homofeeb turned his head and addressed the passengers loudly.

"Have you ever noticed in a noisy group, the smallest one always has the biggest mouth?"

"What colour is yer knickers?" guffawed Paddy, the short, fat one in an adenoidal voice.

The puny one laughed explosively as he pointed at Farbeg who was still standing on the seat glaring at the ruffians.

"Is dat yer bodyguard, sunflower? Or is he yer pet?"

The elderly gent lowered his newspaper and leaned across the aisle towards Homofeeb.

"Please don't trouble yourself on my account, young man. I would advise you not to interfere."

"That's all very well, sir," argued Homofeeb, "but I am not prepared to tolerate having my journey made any more unpleasant than it has to be."

This brought more guffaws of hilarity, from what Cúchulainn had begun to regard as a remnant of an uncouth Fomorian raiding party. He had even begun to wonder how he would attach their close-cropped heads to his chariot rail, he would have to pierce their ears and string them together like hideous giant beads.

"First," he mumbled, as his train of thought swerved off on a reverie trip, "I have to recover my chariot."

A lean, middle-aged man elderly gent rose from his seat behind the driver and whispered to Homofeeb:

"Look, there's really no need to put yourself at risk. The driver has already radioed ahead for the Gardaí to board the bus when we reach Mullinstown village. That's scarcely fifteen minutes from here."

There were more guffaws as, Homofeeb, his rage mollified somewhat by this information, resumed his seat. Cúchulainn, who had been conferring with Amtashtalee turned grimly to Homofeeb.

"Amtashtalee informs me that in this age people, for some obscure reason, are constrained from hanging heads on their chariot rails. What we must do, therefore, is to sit tight, unless they attack us. The longer we keep silent the more careless and off-guard they will become."

Presently they passed through the town of Littletrout, shortly thereafter passing into County Meath. As they approached Mullinstown the situation on the bus took an ugly turn. As if the movement had been carefully rehearsed, three of the thugs rose and swaggered up to the front of the bus. The runt remained on the back seat. They spoke briefly to the driver.

"Right, me oul' son," growled the large tough, "this is the terminus for you. Take dat safe o' yours and gerroff. Gerra taxi home an' drink the rest of the money. Ye can say we took it, off y'go now, on yer way."

The bus slowed to a stop. The driver, betraying a dangerous amalgam of suppressed anger, fear and contempt, unlocked his small safe and withdrew it from its place in the floor of the cab. With a sidelong glare at his humiliators, he stepped onto the grass verge.

With an idiotic whoop the large thug leaped into the driver's seat, revved the engine furiously and with a loud screech of tyres, made off at high speed, the vehicle swaying wildly from side to side around a dangerous right-hand bend in the road.

The skinny thug took up a position with his back to the windscreen, and pointing something in a plastic supermarket bag at the passengers, he growled menacingly.

"Dis here is what's known to de trade as a sawn-off shotgun. If I pull de trigger it'll spray lead pellets in every direction except mine. Close up it'll cut y' in two so's yer upper half won't know whatcher lower half is doin'."
   
He pointed the bag at Cúchulainn.

"Especially de queen o' de queens there, de big girl in de red frock. Right, flower? You'll be de first one t' gerrit if anyone makes a move."

A mile further along the country road the bus, regardless of oncoming traffic, took a hair-raising turn to the right into a narrow country lane with blackberry brambles and tree branches brushing and slapping the sides of the vehicle. The thugs began to cheer and sing the Irish soccer chant, "Olé, Olé Olé, Olé, Olé."

"Hang on t'yizzer hats folks!" shouted the hijack driver. "Dis here is de new Mullinstown by-pass."

Homofeeb, rising from his seat, caught Cúchulainn's arm.

"You must stop him, they must have overheard that they are to be intercepted at Mullinstown."

"Not yet," whispered Cúchulainn, "we don't want to endanger the passengers by starting a fight while that large young man is driving the chariot."

The bus emerged from the lane onto a beach, swaying bumpily, its wheels skidding and throwing up brief clouds of soft, dry sand until it reached the firmer sand below the high tide mark. It then turned north and began to speed recklessly, tyres hissing wetly and occasionally throwing up walls of salt spray as it sped through tidal pools.

Suddenly the fat thug lunged forward, grabbed Amtashtalee by one of his frail arms and yanked him up to the front of the bus. There were loud gasps from the passengers on seeing that the thug was holding a surgical scalpel to the old man's throat.

"Right now me oul' drag queen fillum stars, we might just need some extra insurance here, so don't get anny funny ideas or yer granny here in the white dress gets more dan a beard trim."

"An' the rest o' yiz gets Limerick laced wit' lead," added Fatso brandishing the bag.

The elderly gent, who had by now abandoned his newspaper and his air of detachment, started at the unmistakable sound of a police car siren in the distance. His face lightened and he smiled a slight smile in anticipation of the tables being turned.

"Ey, Paco," yelled Slim, "step on the gas there, will ye. The Grade 'A' Suíochán is on our tail." 

(grade 'A' Seat, a derisory bilingual play on the term Gárda Síochána = guardian of the peace)

"So," thought Cúchulainn, "the uncouth Fomorian chief has a name, Paco."
The Gárda car was not long on their tail. It was now speeding alongside the lumbering, swaying bus. Overtaking, it swerved in front of the bus and slowed down. The thug at the wheel of the bus accelerated violently in an effort to ram the Gárda car but the skilled police driver thwarted this intention by swerving to the right and at the same time dropping back until he was alongside the driver's window.

A burly, middle-aged Gárda signalled to the hijacker to stop. Paco grinned insolently at the Gárda and with a furious swing, turned the wheel hard to starboard. The Gárda driver was caught by surprise this time and the bus sideswiped the car with a resounding thump. Then, as though it had been part of a delicately timed plan, the car simultaneously hit a small outcrop of rock, reared wildly and rolled over twice. A chilling cheer went up from the thugs followed by a horrified gasp from the other passengers.

While the thugs were similarly off-guard, Amtashtalee with astonishing energy and force lashed out at his fat captor. The old man's bony fist, propelled like a practised boxer's punch by arm, shoulder and upper body, connected squarely with the side of Fatso's chin. As the thug sank to his knees he felt the coup de grace, a bony knee in the side of the head, then he was out for the count. Amtashtalee snatched up the scalpel and deftly tossed it past the driver's nose and through the open window.

Slim and Paco, were visibly amazed and alarmed by the strength of the old man, but recovering quickly from the shock, Slim hit Amtashtalee over the head with the plastic bag and its sinister contents. With a strangled groan the old time traveller sank senseless on top of the prostrate Fatso, blood pouring from his skull, dyeing his wispy hair a deep crimson.

Paco slammed his foot hard down on the accelerator and Mickser moaned, wringing his hands.

"Ah, Cúchulainn, if only y'had oul' Gae Bollicker!"

"Sh-h-h. As it happens, I have all my weapons hidden in the folds of my cloak, including Gae Bolga. Then there's my sword, named Nimhneach, meaning venomous ...."

"A wound inflicted by Nimhneach never heals," Farbeg told Mickser.

"Me gran'father had a cut-throat razor like that one time," quipped Mickser with a short laugh as Cúchulainn added:

"Then, there's my sling and assorted missiles, my hurley and my silver ball."

"How can ye stow such an amount of hardware under yer cloak?"

"The cloak was bewitched by my old tutor, Cathbhad, the druid. I could carry the entire armoury of Eamhain Macha there if I wished."

As the gunman continued to guard the passengers, Laeg, who knew from experience that Cúchulainn was best left totally in charge of the situation, broke his silence at last.

"But we mustn't make a play with weapons so readily, Mickser. We must abide by the laws of the land and the laws of the time through which we are travelling. Besides, you don't need, what is the expression I heard you use?"

"Yer right, Laeg me oul' son, ye don't need a sledge hammer t'crack a nut. But poor oul' Amtashtalee is after gettin' a shockin' belt on de head. He's out cold an' pumpin' blood. He needs a doctor."

Cúchulainn puckered his brows.

"If only I knew how this horseless chariot works. What makes it go?"

"Der's what they do call an engine that's drove be burnin' oil," Mickser explained.

"And this, er, engine, it turns the wheels?"

"As far as I know, it turns the back wheels."

"If only I could make a quick exit without putting any of these good people in danger."

"Well, here, looka! there's the emergency exit down the back," Mickser pointed out. "Y' see de red handle on the winda? Jus' give it a hard yank. But I wouldn't try it unless we can distract our friend with de shotgun and we can't afford to presume he hasn't really got one in that bag."

An elderly woman and a man, presumably her husband, appealed to the thugs to let her take care of the injured Amtashtalee.

"He's only an old man and he's hurt, so he's no longer a threat to ye."

"Besides that," added her husband, a short, stocky man wearing a dark green trilby. "There'll be hell to pay if anything happens to him, ye'll be in far worse trouble than y'are already, lads."

Slim exchanged glances with Paco. He nodded and Paco motioned to the elderly man to come up for Amtashtalee. Assisted by his wife, he carried Amtashtalee back to their place and sat him on the seat as the woman scolded.

"You ought to be ashamed, hurting a helpless old man!"

"Helpless oul' man me arse," Slim retorted. "Isn't he after breakin', Paddy's fook'n' jaw! Lookarrum! He's still out like a light."

He indicated Fatso's inert body lying on the floor of the bus.

"So," thought Cúchulainn, "the fat one on the floor is Paddy. The little one at the rear is Mugser and the big one is Paco. I wonder what Slim's real name is?"

Farbeg, who had been hiding down on the floor, whispered.

"Listen, Cú, there're only three of the villains left upright. If you could stand up in the aisle your great size would block their view. Then perhaps I could sneak up under the seats, take the sickly one by surprise and slip out the rear exit. That'd even the situation up some more."

"No. Too risky you could get us all killed. Besides the one with the weapon might get nervous and use it on me if I made a move like that."

"An' ye mustn't tink o' tacklin' yer man wit' such a fearsome weapon as a shotgun," added Mickser.

Their conference was cut short by the sound of a chorus of Gárda car sirens in the distance. Paco, yelped, staring bug-eyed into the rear view mirror,

"Jakers, lads, der's a half dozen rozzer motors up our arses!"

It started to rain heavily. Paco fiddled with switches and levers, searching for the screen wipers. Amtashtalee groaned loudly and the elderly woman, winding a makeshift bandage around Amtashtalee's head murmured comfortingly.

"There now, never mind. The Guards'll soon have us outa here."

Looking out of the window she became agitated.

"Lord, God! Look at that rain!" she exclaimed. Then after a moment of agitated rummaging around under the seat, she shrieked: "Me umburella! Where's me umburella? Me umburella is lost! We'll be drowndit wit that rain, Michael."

"Arra Maura, where did ye lave it?" asked Michael.

"Sure, if I knew that it wouldn't be lost, would it? Ah Holy Snantny help us t'find me umburella. Look around there Michael. It was in a Dunne's Stores p...."

Maura suddenly looked up at Slim, her mouth hanging open, "plastic bag," she finished. "Thanks be t' God an' his Holy Mother ...."

"An' not forgettin' Holy Snantny," Michael reminded her.

Michael stood up and walked slowly up the aisle. The gunman pointed the bag threateningly.

"As sure as God is me judge, old man, I'll letcha have it if ye don't sit down."

Michael smiled benignly, continuing to advance, talking quietly.

"Ah, sure ye wouldn't hit an old man wit an umburella now, wouldja?"

The thug swung the bag viciously at Michael's head but he ducked with a deftness that took the thug by surprise.

The blow went wide, setting the thug off balance and Michael, rising from a crouched position, countered with a crashing right uppercut to the chin. The thug fell to the floor like a sack of hay and lay on his back over Slim's legs, his mouth open and his eyes closed.

Meanwhile Michael picked up the plastic bag and began to inspect its contents. Looking pale, he was peering into the bag. Reaching in he pulled out, a shotgun from which most of the wooden stock and the barrel had been sawn off! It was a weapon that could serve only one purpose, to hold a large number of people at bay. Once discharged, the wide spray of lead pellets from the stump of the barrel could blow a man in half.

Michael gasped, his eyes glinting angrily.

"Mother o' divine hour, wouldja looka this!"

He pointed the gun at Paco:

"Now ye hoor's melt, stop the bus or I'll ...."

"Or ye'll, blow me fook'n' head off?"sneered Paco. Naw, ye wouldn't do that. Ye wouldn't punch me out either not while I'm doin' sixty over these clumps o' rocks. An', annyway, the gun's not loaded! Now ye'd better sit down or ye might be goin' through the windscreen."

Michael looked at Cúchulainn who nodded gravely. The old man, still holding the gun in one hand and the plastic bag in the other sat down in his place.

Incredibly his wife Maura asked:

"Wouldja have another look around love, and' see if there's aira sign o' me umburella?"

Without a second's hesitation, Cúchulainn darted to the rear of the bus, his cloak billowing behind him. As he did, the puny thug Mugser produced a flick knife, pressed the button releasing its long, thin blade and held it up threateningly. His jaw set, his eyes glinting like those of a cornered rat, he cowered backwards, the knife held quavering at arm's length.

Cúchulainn paused, and raising a finger in admonition.

"Listen to me, a mhic, you have a choice. You open that exit and jump out now, or I throw you out, with that knife sticking out of your arse."

As the thug hesitated, Cúchulainn fixed him with his steely stare and conjured from under his cloak a six-foot claymore that would fell a tree. When Mugser saw and felt the heavy two-edged blade resting against the side of his neck he dropped the flick-knife and raised his hands in an attitude of supplication, his eyes bulging in terror.

"Ah, Jazes, sir, don't kill me."

"Now then," hissed the big warrior, "if you don't pull that red handle and disappear through that hatch in three seconds, you'll join your ancestors, and you may not wish to be wherever they might be."

Mugser turned his head and glanced at the Gárda cars, keeping their distance and awaiting a favourable opportunity to move in. Cúchulainn pressed the flat of the sword blade against the lad's neck causing him to flinch violently.

The puny thug scrabbled blindly for the emergency handle, terror-filled eyes fixed on Cúchulainn. At last, his hand found the handle and with a sobbing grunt he pulled it.

There was a sudden rise in the noise levels. A gust of cold, sea air whined through the bus as Mugser threw himself sideways through the hatch. Cúchulainn watched him roll wildly along the wet, hard sand for several yards before coming to rest in a tidal pool.

On his hands and knees Cúchulainn then  rolled nimbly through the hatch to land lightly on his feet. With a prodigious burst of speed he closed the gap between himself and the speeding bus. Not such a remarkable feat considering that as the boy Setanta, he could strike a sliotar a mighty puck with his hurley, throw his spear and then overtake and catch them before they hit the ground.

Bending down, trying to work up his battle rage without the help of Laeg's taunting, he caught the underside of the bus.

"At least it's not Bricriú's dining hall," he thought with a wry grin. "Yet I didn't have to run at sixty miles an hour while I was lifting it."

With a smooth heave he straightened up. The engine revved wildly as the rear wheels left the ground. Cúchulainn, still running, knees bent and feet splayed, eyes shut, teeth gleaming with effort, gradually managed to lean backwards, straining to check the forward momentum of the heavy vehicle. When the vehicle stopped altogether the engine continued to roar, the rear wheels spinning ineffectually as Paco flattened the accelerator pedal against the floor.

The Gárda cars closed in and surrounded the bus and Cúchulainn, now standing still and holding the wheels off the ground, regarded the young Gárda who was the first to arrive on the scene.

The fresh-faced young man, transfixed, was staring open-mouthed.

"Well don't just stand there!" roared the warrior, struggling to remember the technical terms in which Mickser had explained the mystery of the missing shafts and horses. "Get someone to stop the engine."

Nodding dumbly the Gárda sprinted to the front entrance of the vehicle where someone had already opened the door. He stepped briskly over the dazed Fatso and Paddy and smacked Paco almost lazily with the back of a large ham of a hand. The jolt was enough to get Paco's foot off the pedal without putting him under and the Gárda deftly shut off the engine and jerked the handbrake.

With a loud cry of relief Cúchulainn gratefully dropped the rear wheels of the bus and the Gárda, jolted off balance, lurched and fell heavily across Paco. Recovering his balance he snapped on the cuffs and hefted him from the bus as easily as he might have lugged a bundle of straw back home on the family farm. Two more Gardaí taking charge of the two slumbering thugs, carried them feet first off the bus. They groaned loudly as they were laid on the damp sand. An older officer dropped on one knee, felt Paddy's pulse and fingered the bruised face gingerly.

The paperwork Gárda addressed Slim as he sat up with a loud groan.

"So what's the matter with you me bucko?" he asked sternly, biro poised as the thug nursed his face.

Fractured jaw, he scribbled in his notebook.

Well, I bet Cúchulainn's muscles are aching tonight, but he still must find Grey Macha. Log on every Sunday for further chapters.