No Comebacks

The team had been all ready and prepared and they were not wasting time. A line of contractor's men came in and out of the house, bearing the squalid goods and chattels of the former occupant, which they deposited in the road under the now streaming rain. The council housing officer had his umbrella up and watched. Inside the car-park compound two mechanical shovels on their rubber wheels were waiting to begin on the rear of the house, the back yard and small privy. Behind them waited a line of ten tipper trucks to carry away the rubble of the house. Mains water, electric current and gas had been cut off months ago, and the house was damp and filthy as a result. Sewage there had never been, hence the outside privy which had been served by a buried septic tank, soon to be filled in and concreted over forever. The council housing officer approached Hanley when he got out of his car again. He gestured towards the open back of a council van.

'I've saved what we could of any sentimental value,' he volunteered. 'Old photos, coins, some medal ribbons, some clothes, a few personal documents in a cigar box, mostly mouldy. As for the furniture ...' he indicated the pile of bric-a-brac in the rain, 'it's alive; the medical officer has advised us to burn the lot. You wouldn't get tuppence for it.'

'Aye,' said Hanley. The official was right, but that was Ids problem. Still, he seemed to want moral support.

'Will he get compensation for this?' asked Hanley.

'Oh, yes,' said the official eagerly, anxious to explain that his department was not a heartless beast. 'For the house, which was his own title property, and a fair valuation for the furniture, fixtures, fittings and any personal effects lost, damaged or destroyed. And a displacement allowance to cover the inconvenience of moving ... though frankly he's cost the council a lot more than the total by refusing to quit for so long.'

At this moment, one of the men came from round the side of the house carrying two chickens, head down, in each hand.

'What the hell do I do with these?' he asked no one in particular.

One of his colleagues told him. Barney Kelleher snapped off a photo. Good picture, that, he thought. The last friends of the Hermit of Mayo Road. Nice caption. One of the contractor's men said he too kept chickens and could put them in with his small flock. A cardboard carton was found, the damp birds popped inside and they went in the council van until they could go to the workman's home.

Within an hour, it was over. The small house was gutted. A burly foreman in gleaming yellow oilskins came over to the council official.

'Can we start?' he asked. 'The boss wants the car park finished and fenced. If we can concrete by tonight, we can tar it over tomorrow first thing.'

The official sighed. 'Go ahead,' he said. The foreman turned and waved toward a mobile crane from whose arm swung a half-ton iron ball. Gently the crane moved forward to the flank of the house, planted itself and rose with a soft hiss onto its hydraulic feet. The ball began to swing, gently at first, then in bigger arcs. The crowd watched fascinated. They had seen their own houses go down in just this way, but the sight never palled. Finally, the ball thumped into the side of the house, not far from the chimney, splintering a dozen bricks and sending two cracks racing down the wall. The crowd gave a long, low 'Aaaaaah'. There's nothing like a nice bit of demolition to cheer up a bored crowd. At the fourth crunch, two upper windows popped out from their frames and fell into the car park. A corner of the house detached itself from the rest, waltzed slowly in a half spiral and collapsed into the back yard. Moments later, the chimney stack, a solid column of brick, snapped at the mid-section and the upper portion crashed through the roof and down through the floor to ground level. The old house was coming apart. The crowd loved it. Chief Superintendent Hanley got back into his car and returned to the caf6.

It was even warmer and more humid than before. His driver sat at the bar counter before a steaming cup of tea. He stubbed out a cigarette as Hanley walked in and slithered from his bar stool. The old man seemed busy in the corner.

'Is he finished yet?' asked Hanley.

'He's taking a powerful long time, sir,' said the driver. 'And the buttered bread is going down like there was no tomorrow.'

Hanley watched as the old man embalmed yet another morsel of greasy fried food in soft, white bread and began to chew.

'The bread'11 be extra,' said the caf6 owner. 'He's had three portions already.'

Hanley glanced at his watch. It was past eleven. He sighed and hoisted himself on a stool.

'A mug of tea,' he said. He had told the Health and Welfare official to join him in thirty minutes and take the old man into council care. Then he could get back to his office and on with some paperwork. He'd be glad to be shot of the whole business.

Barney Kelleher and his cub reporter came in.

'Buying him breakfast, are you?' asked Barney.

'I'll claim it back,' said Hanley. Kelleher knew he wouldn't. 'Get some pictures?'

Barney shrugged. 'Not bad,' he said. 'Nice one of the chickens. And the chimney stack coming down. And himself being brought out in a blanket. End of an era. I remember the days when ten thousand people lived in the Diamond. And all of them at work. Poor paid, mind you, but working. It took fifty years to create a slum in those days. Now they can do it in five.'

Hanley grunted. 'That's progress,' he said.

A second police car drew up at the door. One of the young officers who had been at Mayo Road jumped out, say/ through the glass that his chief was with the press and halted, irresolute. The cub reporter did not notice. Barney Kelleher pretended not to. Hanley slid off his stool and went to the door. Outside in the rain the policeman told him, 'You'd better come back, sir. They've ... found something.'

Hanley beckoned to his driver who came out to the pavement. 'I'm going back,' said Hanley. 'Keep an eye on the old man.' He glanced back into the cafe.

At the far back the old man had stopped eating. He held a fork in one hand, a piece of rolled bread containing half a sausage in the other, perfectly immobile, as he stared silently at the three uniforms on the pavement.

Back at the site, all work had stopped. The demolition men in their oilskins and hard hats stood grouped in a circle in the rubble of the building. The remaining policeman was with them. Hanley strode from his car, picking his way over the shattered piles of brick, to where the circle of men stared downwards. From behind, the remnants of the crowd murmured.

'It's the old man's treasure,' whispered someone loudly from the crowd. There was a murmur of agreement. 'He had a fortune buried there; that's why he'd never leave.'

Hanley arrived at the centre of the group and looked at the area of attention. The short stump of the shattered chimney stack still stood, 5 feet high, surrounded by piles of debris. At the base of the stack, the old black fireplace could still be seen. To one side a couple of feet of outer house wall still stood. At its base, inside the house, was a collection of fallen bricks, from which protruded the shrunken and wizened, but still recognizable leg of a human being. A shred of what looked like a stocking still clung below the kneecap.

'Who found it?' asked Hanley.