The Irish Tales

This is the introduction to a short story of mine....

Bingo, bongo, in the Congo.
　
"Oh God, the flies ! The eternal flies ! I swear they have followed me here from Mesopotamia. Look ! I recognise that one ! The one with the blue eyes and the quiff !"

So spake Julian "Bingo" Jennings, as he sat sipping something soothing at a pleasant café near to the Vatican, one lovely, sunny autumn day.

"You were never in Mesopotamia, Bingo," said his sweet wife Kate. "It was the Congo."

"It was hell," replied Bingo, with a ferocity that came as something of a surprise to Kate, who had witnessed her husband display much less passion in many more important political debates.

"…..wherever it was," said Bingo.

His defiance was so unlike the dear man whom Kate had loved and admired through so many maladministrations, that she frowned, very delicately.
But frowned, none the less.

The waiter came, as he always did, slyly and most amiably. He took their empty glasses, waited a second for Kate’s nod, then slid away.

"It really wasn’t your fault, Bingo. They would have died anyway. At least you gave them dignity."

Bingo smiled wryly at this and lit another cigarette, deliberately ignoring the one which burned steadily in the ashtray.

He was a true Empire made man; tall, only slightly over-weight given his age; but hair of burnished steel and the eyes of eagles made him both popular with the common people and imperious to the rest.

He loved his appearance because, without it, he reasoned, he would not be worthy of the trust of the people. And the trust of the people was everything to Bingo.

And now, as he looked back upon a life of service to his country and its dominions, (especially its dominions), he felt a real sense of regret and remorse.

There were some people, somewhere, he seemed to recall. A fair few. And they all died. It was hard now to remember why, exactly, but it seemed to have something to do with him.

Surely not ?

All his life, Bingo had worked for King and Queen and country. The country varied from time to time and these days he had difficulty remembering their names. Or why he had been there.

But something inside him knew with absolute certainty that he’d done his best, by God. And surely, no-one could ask more of a chap ?

The man from the papers appeared again, with his sickly smile and swivelling eyes.

His hair was cut en brosse, a style which was popular during the war, died away slowly and now emerged once more in the unlikely shape of Morgan.

He loitered on the steps, halfway between tables, flicking glances and fluttering his eyelashes at Kate.

She looked discreetly away, but said to Bingo, "Don’t look, but that awful journalist is here again."

Naturally, Bingo looked. But he saw no reporter, no hair cut en brosse.

He saw instead a tall, black man, dressed in tribal clothing and carrying a Bible. There was blood streaming from a gash in his cheek.

He seemed to be distressed about something, thought Bingo curiously............


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