CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR
Surprise: Lootenant Delany Turns Up

Fatso held up his hands, looked at the Gárda and moaned again.

The scribe ran his hand roughly along Fatso's jaw line causing him to yelp with pain and pull away sharply from the diagnostic fingers.

"Yep," he pronounced, with no trace of pity, "the little shit's jaw is gone in two places. Jeez, was Mike Tyson on this bus?"

He scribbled once more in his notebook, finished with a grand flourish of his biro and snapped the book shut. More Gárdaí arrived and now had a cuffed, soaked and bewildered Mugser in the back seat of their car.

"This poor little hoor has a broken arm," announced the driver.

Fatso and Paddy were similarly bundled into a second car as the tall, rugged sergeant continued to direct his men.

"Clancy, get on the radio and call the station. Tell them we have an elderly man with what may be serious head injuries. Ask them to send a chopper for him."

Approaching Cúchulainn and his companion, the sergeant, thumbs hooked ostentatiously in his breast pockets, nodded patronisingly.

"Nice work lads. You must be the stuntmen from the movie set,"

Without waiting for confirmation, denial or amendment, he thundered on:

"I'm Sergeant McMorrow, are you an American?"

"Excuse me sergeant," said Mickser, noting Cúchulainn's annoyance at the sergeant's indelicate garrulousness, "but me friend here is not too good at de language. He ...."

"Ah, sure I might have known. We don't have much demand for native stuntmen in Ireland. Look, I don't want to keep you gentlemen from your business too long, but I'll need a statement about what happened here."

"Certainly sergeant, no problem," Mickser replied, launching into an account of the hijack.

Within earshot of this little conference, old Michael from the bus was walking over to talk to the young Gárda:

"Ah, sure it was no bother t'me Guard. Your man was only a little fart of a lad, an' sure th'oul gun wasn't loaded!"

Gárda Clancy, who had taken charge of the weapon, pointed it skywards and squinted at it, his face screwed up knowledgeably.

"Not loaded, ye say? Well now doesn't that bate the divil? Not loaded ...."

He jumped as the gun went off with a roar. All heads turned in alarm.

"Mother o' Divine James's Street!" exclaimed Michael, crossing himself quickly, his face suddenly ashen. Maura, eyes tightly shut, head tilted skywards, arms raised in the orans position, breathily intoned a prayer:

"Jesus, Mary and Joseph have mercy on us all."

A large seagull fell with a damp, bloody plop on the sand at the sergeant's feet.
"Nice shootin' Clancy," said the sergeant dryly. "Now will ye look lively. Here comes the helicopter for the old man."

"Anyone lost an umbrella? Cé leis?" (who owns it) A young guard waved the missing brolly above his head, scanning the faces of the passengers in search of a claimant.

"Oh thank you, Jesus Mary and Joseph." Maura intoned.

"And Holy Snantny," added Michael.

"And thanks be to you, young sir," said Maura to Cúchulainn as she took possession of her property.

"Amen," added Michael.

As the sergeant leaned through the car window to talk to a sullen Paco, the elderly, distinguished gent, target for the bottle tops, alighted from the bus and approached, eyeing Paco menacingly through the open window of the Gárda car.

"Good afternoon sergeant, I seem to know this young man from another place, another time. I spent quite a while going through my mental files before it came to me."

Paco leered insolently. "Never saw him in me life before t'day. He's jus' name-dropppin', sergeant."

The elderly gent smiled slightly, but there was a menacing jut to his jaw as he made eye contact with the thug.

"Oh, but you have good reason to remember me, young man. And furthermore, we'll be meeting again shortly. Then I will give you even more reason to remember me."

Paco's leer dissolved into a twisted scowl.

"Who the hell are y', then?"

"I am, my dear young defendant, the Justice who sent you down for twelve months for disorderly behaviour, assault, malicious damage and let me see, taking a motor vehicle without the owner's consent. Shall I go on?"

"Ah, now I have y'," Paco sneered, his arrogance returning, "I just couldn't place the face. I'da reconizin' y' straight off only y'changed your hair-do. Didn'tcha used t'have loads o' white curls an waves?"

"Have you quite finished preparing the case for your defence?" hissed Sergeant McMorrow.

The helicopter landed and the power throttled back, Cúchulainn nudged Mickser.

"Is this flying chariot drove, I mean powered, by an oil-burning engine like the bus? Or is it borne along by the magic of this age?"

"They don't need magic nowadays t'do de like o' that. Then again, we've forgotten de kinda magic I seen you doin', stuff that'd stump the wizards of dis day an' age," said Mickser.

"So, today's magic is tomorrow's technology?"

"Y' might not believe it, but a few year ago dey sent men t'the moon an back an' brought lumps o' rock an' moondust!"

"Did your people go to the moon in one of these flying chariots?"

"Arra no. They used bigger, more complicated engines for dat."

The discussion was interrupted by the arrival of a relief bus to take the stranded passengers to their destination.

"Is there anything I can do for you lads?" asked McMorrow, "Do ye need a lift anywhere special? Or will ye go on the bus?"

"Well," since yer askin' de questions," said Mickser, "we are worried about our old friend who's goin' off in de helicopter. What hospital is he goin'ta?"

"He's off to the Lourdes Hospital in Bridgeford. However, if there are complications they may fly him up to St Vincent's in Dubhlinn. Keep in touch with the Lourdes. And in the meantime, if there's anything I can do to help, please feel free, I'm attached to Bridgeford station."

Mickser, was still protecting his friends from the inquisitive sergeant:

"I'll just ask me mates if they want t'go on de bus or wharever."

He turned to Cúchulainn and spoke quietly and rapidly.

"Here, yer man wants t' know whatcha want t' do. I tink we should stick wit' Amtashtalee, 'cos without him you lads is stuck in a time warp!"

Cúchulainn, looking out over the water, shook his head decisively.

"No, we should go on, I recognise where we are. That's the Bóinne river at *Inver Colpa, beyond is the plain of Muirtheimhne where I grew up. That's where the battle play is taking place, on Thrawfadda. I must get Grey Macha and the chariot.

"You mean, poor oul' Amtashtalee might ....?"

"If he dies we are in deep trouble, apart from that he has become my friend and I love him as my father."

"An' you are all my friends too," said Mickser with a resolute jut of his chin. "I'll stick witchoo oul' son, whatever it is y'want t'do next."

"I'm glad to hear it, Mickser, you have been a true friend and a faithful companion to us. Tell the sergeant that we'll find our own way. Thank him and tell him we'll keep in touch."

The sergeant, having listened attentively to what Mickser was saying, nodded, patted him on the shoulder, threw a semiformal salute in the direction of the time travellers, boarded his car and drove off.

As Cúchulainn stood apart from the others, moodily surveying the land and seascape beyond the river, he felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned to look into the eyes of a large, rugged man in a uniform that differed somewhat from the Gárdaí. The man was speaking but Cúchulainn could not hear the voice for the noise of the helicopter engine. He leaned down and placed his ear close to the man's mouth.

He shouted into the warrior's ear.

"I'm sorry sir, but I gotta check out a complaint made against you by one of the suspects. He's in the chopper and he's hurt. Says you assaulted him with a deadly weapon."

Cúchulainn, not comprehending beckoned to Mickser and signalled his problem by pointing at the stranger, pulling a face and shrugging. The stranger yelled in Mickser's ear.

"He says he's Lootenant Ignatius Delany of NYPD and he's in Ireland on a police exchange programme."

As Mickser was speaking, the helicopter engine shut down altogether and a man, wearing a white helmet with 'Gárda' emblazoned on it in blue letters, emerged from the machine.

The Gárda sprinted over to the group.

"Sorry about that, I shut down the engine so that ye can hear."

Then facing Cúchulainn he explained.

"One of the injured men in the 'copter says you attacked him with a giant sword and that he was lucky to escape with a broken arm and few broken ribs. Can you confirm or deny that?"

The NYPD cop intervened. "OK Gárda, let me demonstrate how we handle this kinda thing in Noo York City."

He eyed Cúchulainn sternly.

"A citizen has made an accusation against you, assault with a deadly weapon and ABH, that's actual bodily harm. What have you to say?"

"Y'don't have to say a word," said Mickser indignantly.

Confronting the American cop, he wagged a finger in his face.

"I shouldn't have to remind you mister dat you're supposed to read a man his rights and to caution him dat anything he says now can be used in evidence against him."

The big cop's face softened.

"Yeah, yeah, you're right, but hell guys I'm on your side. This is just routine."

"Yeah? Well it's only routine dat my friend here, says nutt'n. It's now only routine t'search the suspect for de alleged deadly weapon."

"Oyeah? You been to law school then?"

"No, but I've seen enough American cops an' robbers fillums to know police procedure. Now search de man, apologise and be on yer way, Lootenant."

Delany grinned good-naturedly at Mickser.

Turning to Cúchulainn he said, in a graver tone, "Sorry I have t'do this. Would you please turn around and put your hands on top of your head?"

The Ulsterman did as he was asked. Delany ran his hands swiftly down his body and under his cloak, then stepped back a pace.

"OK Sir, I knoo that hood was lyin'."

He nodded to the Gárda.

"Clean as a whistle."

Delany was eying Cúchulainn curiously.

"Say, don't I know you from someplace? I'm sure we've met but durned if I can place you."

Cúchulainn straightened and examined the man's face carefully. He shook his head with an apologetic smile and a shrug.

"Lootenant Ignatius Delany, New York Police Department, Manhattan Precinct, just like Kojak, Ring any bells?"

The Ulsterman shook his head again.

"You ever been to Noo York?"

Delany, seeming to wrestle with some minor frustration, searched the Ulsterman's face minutely. Then smiling weakly he patted him on the shoulder.

"I guess I'm mistaken then. I'm on a police exchange programme y'see, between the Gárdaí and NYPD. I get t'see lotsa faces in the Big Apple."

He laughed softly with a shrug.

"Call it data overload", the cop added. "I guess I'm slowing down some."

Cúchulainn was at a loss for a response but his face eloquently proclaimed his perplexity. His reticence unnerved and embarrassed Delany. Stepping awkwardly away from the huge, strangely attired warrior, he gave a short, embarrassed laugh.

"Well, nice to meet you. And thanks for your assistance. See you 'round sometime, mebbe."

He took a step forward, paused and turned.

"Oh, and good luck with the movie."

Setting off at a lumbering, heavy-footed sprint towards the waiting helicopter, he did not notice Cúchulainn's open-mouthed wonder as the machine's engine coughed and sprang into life. Delany boarded and the machine leaped into the air without the aid of Aoife's swans. Cúchulainn followed its course until it dwindled to a speck far to the west and the whine of its engine died away.

The sky was clearing, and to the north the distant Mournes began to rise like a pale blue ghost from the mist as the friends set off towards the Bóinne river...

"Good luck with the movie," Delany said! What if those film makers think our heroes are film extras? Can you imagine what would happen if anyone tried to film a time traveller?!! Log on every Sunday for further chapters, and this week don't miss our * Author's note below.

Inbhear Colpa means the Estuary of Colpa the son of a legendary Milesian Chieftain who arrived there in the Long Ago. Colpa was drowned in the estuary of the as these ancient Celts made landfall there. The had come to stake their claim to a bit of the Emerald Isle.

The area is that of Mornington, about five miles downstream from Drogheda on the South bank of the river. I and my boyhood friends used to walk there on warm days and swim from the lovely white beach there. It was a wild and unfrequented place then with just a few cottages and an ancient called Pete Lynch who used sell sweets, lemonade and lethal green apples.

A wonderful old lady called Kate lived alone in an old white house among the dunes. She always had a welcome for hot, damp and thirsty boys plying them with cool, sweet spring water in thick green glass tumblers which one dared not drop on one's toes.

The whole of the dunes area for a couple of miles southwards is now a golf course fenced off to keep out young ragamuffins like us ...