BigBug
Chapter XXV

“What are we in?” gasped Seamus. The air was very warm and full of moisture and mist. It was misty in the hive with rain forest ambiance at dawn in the hot season.

“We are in,” repeated Moon, “that’s the main thing. We are in,” he repeated. As if they managed to scam their way into the big gig. The door closed behind them.

“ We are in hell.”

“Do sit down,” offered Bigbug. It was now talking as Jeeves. “We have nothing to drink I’m afraid, sir, but blood. I will speak with Cook. Perhaps you would like a slice of prison pie?” It began to laugh and then continued in a leprechaun’s voice, “I didn’t think so. Sure you might be eating and drinking your auld granny and den what would you tell the priest at confession? Tell me dat and tell me no more.” It then danced a little jig indicating they should sit beside a table on which rested Moon’s meteorite. The GUSH enabled Seamus, in whatever which way, to multi task. To concentrate and observe, to consider their options, to work out a plan while listening to someone else talking.

“ Sit down where?” asked Moon gawking around the place. Seamus knew Moon better than any other person. The idiot was oblivious to the danger they, and the human race was in. He was sightseeing. He was behaving in exactly the same way he did when they both went to Egypt and he first visited the pyramids. He was a tourist in hell. Although also fixated with the big hive Seamus did note the Bigbug was over dosing on Bug juice. It was communicating more and more with them as characters from films, books or plays, with increasingly erratic performances. Bigbug pointed a finger and two heavy alloy swivel chairs materialized.

“Sit!” ordered Bigbug. It was now a dog trainer.

They sat staring at the great hive. The room hummed and quivered. The air quietly crackled and spat. There was a great power source here or very close by. The mist cleared. The hive housed DATA. This was the bugs’ tabernacle. DATA was a simple looking sphere similar to a golf ball about one meter in diameter. It hovered off the ground and spun, spun so fast, it was impossible for the human eye to see the rotations. One could feel it was radiating and emanating power. Awesome power. Nevertheless, a transparent tube with a honey coloured liquid running through it still entered the top right-hand side of DATA and a slightly bigger transparent tube ran out the bottom left-hand side of the life form carrying a thick green transparent liquid. Bigbug was trying to mind read again.

“Yes. You see it. Bugjuice, nectar of the God, this God, our God, the one God, coming in, and clone spawn, devil jelly, coming out. Enough to fill one tank full of clone spawn every two weeks. Easy very peasy and a piece of cake, and I am not talking here about mom’s home-made apple pie.” It was now speaking as John Cleese.

The bugs were restricted in their clone production by the amount of devil jelly the hive produced. That’s why they wanted Moons meteorite so badly. There were enough bugs in Moons meteorite to make three more hives. Quadruple production. Quadruple terror. Seamus looked at Moon’s meteorite sitting on the table. It looked dark and mysterious and ruggedly beautiful. Not like the terrible object of terror, it would become when DATA activated it.

“We are overheating,” said Seamus.

A cool wind blew on them both. Bigbug came over to them. “I shall relieve your un comfortableness. I am going to take off your cuffs but please don’t try anything stupid,” it was now Bogey, and it pointed at the hive, “anyone, anything that touches the hive will be hurled into instant disintegration.” It now spoke as Scotty “Aye if they get through the force field, captain. DATA is spinning in tandem with the Earths rotations, and enough energy is being created by this simple exploitation to power the entire planet thrice over with enough power left over to facilitate a modern space programme. Warp me, baby.”

“Your ancestors, Captain, sucked the Earth dry and burned it,” says the Vulcan drily. Bigbug was talking to Moon as if Moon were Captain Kirk. Bigbug shook its head sadly, “When they could have had Planetary Equilibrium. PE.” Bigbug shook its head sadly once again. It shouted, “Do you understand now why you must be eradicated?” Bigbug undid the handcuffs.

“If you are so enlightened and eco- friendly why are you producing that devil jelly shit?” Moon pointed at the clone spawn.

“Does the job very well. It’s made from a very successful organism. The common cancer cell. Cheap as hell. Of course, DATA could, if it’s gracious eminence DATA so desired, have strawberry milkshake coming through or bejesus even a wee drop of poteen.” Ronnie Drew from the Dubliners began to sing ’where the water flows and the barley grows, in a free and easy way, just give me a drop of the rare auld stuff, that’s made near Galway Bay.” Bigbug began to hop about, jig fashion, singing the diddle dee chorus ‘diddly um die diddly um die diddly um di dilly die day.’ It stopped in mid diddly. It pointed at Moon’s meteorite. “That’s another fine rock you’ve got me into, Stanley.” Now it became all menacing, and began to scream, “You have another of our rocks. Where is it? Ve have ways to make you talk.” It slapped Seamus hard across the face and kicked Moon off his seat.

There was a series of loud clicks from the spinning DATA.

The Bigbug lifted Moon back up dusted him down theatrically and patted him on the head affectionately. “DATA wishes to speak with you now.” Bigbug went and sat at the feet of DATA in a Lotus position. It inserted a spike into its arm and connected it up to a small tube from the main tube feeding it Bugjuice. It went into trance. Moon thought it was goofed out. DATA made series of clicks. Bigbug opened its mouth and translated. They heard the voice of DATA.

“Welcome human males. You must excuse our adaptation’s exuberance. Bigbug’s human composition is fundamentally still only a nine-year-old boy with all the irks and quirks of human boyhood. We let it communicate through the medium of movies for the boy’s sake. This it relishes. We also replace film is a most remarkable art form. We see there is a scene for every scenario. We thank you for replaceing our kind. You have another of our rocks. We must have it back.”

Moon was shaking his head.

“Are you willing to give it up freely?” The clicks stopped. Seamus didn’t know how to respond.

“No,” says Moon, “you cannot have it and you better give that meteorite back.” He pointed at his meteorite on the table. “It’s mine. I found it and you stole it. You can’t have that either. There are laws on this planet you creepy fucking cockroach. You are not allowed to steal other peoples’ meteorites. It’s a crime.” Moon stood up and went to pick up his meteorite. When he touched it he was hurled against the wall. His fingers were burned. The Bigbug turned and looked at him with empty eyes.

“I told you not to be touching things.” Mannering said, “Sit down. You stupid boy.”

Moon picked himself up and sucking his fingers hobbled over and sat back down.

“Negotiate,” said Seamus looking anxiously at the loony Moon, “in the name of God – negotiate.”

“Well,” says Moon, “if you want to try and cut a deal go ahead but I remind you of our policy. The Irish government never negotiate with meteorite thieves.” Moon shouted at the hive. “And in case you don’t know you have kidnapped us – Flipper.” He made series of clicking noises and blew raspberries at Bigbug and the hive.

“And,” said Seamus, imploring Moon with his eyes not to go too far, “you have also kidnapped twenty-five children. We will give you what you want but first, and this is non- negotiable, you let the children go. Now.”

“If you give us the second rock and disclose the location to us we will consider releasing you and the children but we warn you. The M&Ms party is due to begin this evening. In less than four hours.”

“For God’s sake. They are going to eat the children,” protested Seamus.

The Bigbug opened its eyes and smiled at them. It was not a friendly smile. “You are carnivores.” It was the leprechaun again. “Morally you don’t have a leg to stand on. No, no, dat’s wrong Mick - you won’t have a leg to stand on. They will be eaten while you arse about the place.” The Bigbug laughed at its wee joke.

“Yeah,” agreed Moon, “let the kids go and you can have my meteorite. There can be no negotiation until you let the kids go free.”

“You are in no position to dictate terms. We need to know who you really are. We need all your personal data. You are a devious life form, Mr Seamus. There is more to you than meets the lens. Your behaviour arouses our curiosity. Tell us who you are. Who you really are. We require your data. To do this the programme requires you must answer three questions. When you answer these three questions we will have all your data. There will then be no need for any unpleasant interrogation. If you refuse to answer the questions you will be handed over to the M&Ms where after torture you will end up as Seamus the Sausage. Answer truly.

(1) What is your greatest secret?

(2) What is your greatest fear?

(3) What is your greatest desire?”

Seamus closed his eyes. What the hell. Somebody had to know sometime. I’ll tell them. What is my greatest secret? This existence that is my life.

“I will answer the questions, in a short story, that I will perform onstage, in the Mind Theatre.”

“Acceptable format provided it is not historical romance. Continue.” DATA monitored Seamus to see if he was telling the truth.

“I must digress from this narrative. Come with me.” Seamus went deep into his mind and invited Moon, the Bigbug, and DATA to accompany him to the performance. They went down in through the maze of secret pathways and stood by the door to the Mind Theatre. The green neon letters, Cead Mile Failte, by the doorway flickered dimly gave up the ghost and went dead. The Celtic Gods had withdrawn their welcome. They went inside. Moon and Bigbug are sitting in row 5. DATA hovers, spinning, in the middle of the theatre a couple of meters from the ground and directly level with my face and in eye contact with me.

I am not Seamus.

I am standing on stage behind the curtain. I have dramatized my short story, Tout. I have no need of a script, no need of rehearsals because this story is burnt into my mind. My performance will come from my heart, my broken heart.

Curtain up.

I address the audience.

“I am lying by the side of a freshly dug grave in Co Louth, in the big green banana, big bollox boudhran, ceilidh band land, of saints and scholars, the Irish Republic. I am lying naked, face down, by the side of the grave. I am so cold. They have stripped me so they can incinerate my clothing, footwear, belongings and me. They will not leave any forensic evidence, no trace, behind. I am bound hand and foot and gagged with the ubiquitous gaffer tape. I have bound and gagged many other men and women with the same tape. Ironic. I am bound and gagged with a roll of tape used by my own unit. Tape, I bought in a big bargain box in a Cash and Carry in Dublin. There are informers, spies, traitors and assassins everywhere. Business is booming and brutal in The Celtic Killer. My unit, they called us the Head-hunters, caught the touts, interrogated them and executed them. Most of the touts we left lying defaced, desecrated and very dead, by the side of a lonely road, as an example and a warning, and some we just disappeared. Now I am shortly to join the ghostly ranks of the disappeared. I am going to be murdered. They will say it is orders from above, an execution, but it is pure murder and a murder most foul. My comrades are going to kill me in this holy land I have fought for, this land of saints and scholars, where there is not, and never will be, one tout, one whore, one Brit, one Protestant, or any immigrants, the length and breadth of this sacred island. Why are my friends and comrades going to murder me? It is a terrible story. It is a story that I must tell. I was, I am, an innocent man.”

Moon heckles me. “ Is this for real?”

“Yes, it is a true story.”

The Bigbug nods approvingly. DATA spins and sends out pleasant humming vibes that help sooth my traumatized recollections. I will tell them everything. I want to tell them everything.

“Five days before, on the day they grabbed me, I reported into my local IRA unit as per usual. I was the Brigade Intelligence Officer. When I entered the back yard of the pub, where we met, I was jumped on by several volunteers from another command and beaten into unconsciousness and all the while the man who beat me most viciously, kept screaming hysterically, “Tout, traitor, you are a tout.”

I point at the boards.

“That was the man who dug this grave for me. Look at it. An anonymous trench dug out in a remote location in the mountains by Dundalk. Why has this man, why had these men, done this? I am not a tout. I am a dedicated and loyal volunteer whose whole life is dedicated to the Republican Movement. Dedicated to such a degree this commitment, with all the sacrifice that entailed, has destroyed my marriage. My wife has left me and is looking for a divorce. My children are gone. The man who abducted me and beat me senseless, the man who spent two days torturing me to make me sign a false, pre prepared, confession is John Joe Cashel. None other than this sadistic, rotten, excuse for a man, who is digging the grave I am now lying beside. I have so many questions. Come over and stand by this grave and listen to a condemned man. Why is Cashel doing this? Lord, I remember whispering, why have my comrades abandoned me? These are men and women I laid down my life for, on so many occasions, and now they are going to kill me. This is not an execution. This is nothing but murder. I am resolved to die. I have nothing much left to live for, but, as I breathe in the damp earth, that will soon be my shroud, one gnawing question. Why didn’t my wife tell me things were so bad? I was painfully aware I wasn’t there most of the time, being on active service and on the run from the internment camps, but Saoirse gave me no indication. None. Not a word. I have to drive these questions, these bitter recriminations, from my mind. I do not want to lose my mind. I do not want to die a terrified wreck of a man. I do not want to die branded a coward. What went before is all water, blood stained water, under the bridge. I was determined to die with dignity, but let me relate to you, ladies and gentlemen, and those of us who are either or neither, how this abominable injustice came about.”

Bigbug smiled and DATA sent me encouraging waves of goodwill and psychological support. Anti-Trauma Vibes. ATV. I cannot believe such a superior intelligent life form will wipe us all out and in such a horrible way and I cannot believe DATA will let the M&Ms abuse and eat the children. We should welcome such a magnificent life form as DATA to our planet and we should respect and obey it. DATA is only trying to rescue the planet and save ourselves from ourselves. It is good to have such an appreciative, sympathetic and understanding audience. I want to tell DATA everything. I want to pour out my soul.

“There were a series of disasters within my brigade. Volunteers ambushed and shot, sleepers mysteriously executed. Some people simply disappearing and never heard off again. Supply routes were cut off. Cars and houses bobby trapped and infighting started to take place. Units were put at each other’s throats. Suspicion, distrust, and paranoia spread creating a fertile murky atmosphere in which the establishment rats flourished. Weapons and explosive caches discovered. Dirty tricks were performed on a daily basis. It soon became very obvious there was a tout at work within the Brigade. A tout working at a very high level. The Movement was frantic to discover who it was and eliminate him. John Joe Cashel was insistent I was the Tout and so when I could endure the pain, the degradation and humiliation, and the threats to my family no longer, I signed the false confession. I knew I was signing my own death warrant. I also knew this man was going to kill me whether I signed a confession or not. He was a maniac on a mission, an angel wielding a bloody sword. I had watched men sign similar confessions and then they were made to record them. A recording was given to their families to stop any adverse publicity, to keep the local community in line, and to serve as a warning to other would be touts. In my case, the man now digging my grave, John Joe Cashel, had written and dictated this false confession. Cashel was a senior officer, the Brigade’s finance officer, and I had been very quietly investigating him and all the other Brigade and Battalion staff. I was ordered to do this by the Director of Intelligence himself in Dublin. It was a sensitive and secret brief. I must have got too close to someone. I lay there then, sick and demoralized, resigned to my death. I was finished.

The man digging my grave said, “This is deep enough for this piece of shit.”

“Another foot or two,” said the O.C of the Head-hunters, my old boss, and friend, and best man at my wedding, “we have to be sure he is never found. Disappeared must mean disappear.” His words scraped my soul bare. I know how Julius Caesar must have felt at his betrayal. The Head-hunters were an IRA counter intelligence unit who hunted down and eliminated British moles and RUC Special Branch touts from within the IRA ranks.

“I cannot see the point,” says Cashel, “Pour the petrol over him and burn the cunt alive now. Save the ammunition for the enemy.”

“I remember Cashel’s head sticking up out of the grave and him winking to me as I lay bound, naked, shaking and frozen, on the side of my grave. I didn’t know what I saw in his eyes I just knew it was evil. It was frightening.” I pause and address the audience.

“I know now what I saw. Human cruelty in its purest form. Man’s inhumanity not just to man but to anyone and anything at any time.” I address DATA. “You are right DATA we are a barbaric species.”

Moon is shaking his head. He is spellbound but confused. I continue with my performance.

“Dig,” the O.C ordered Cashel, “another two feet. This one must never be found.”

“No problem,” said Cashel. “ It’s a pleasure actually. Oh aye,” he spat in my face and I can still, here and now, smell his stinking breath, “life does have its wee moments. I’m just sorry I can’t dig you all the way into hell you touting bastard.” He laughed and tossed a shovel full of muck onto my face. “Don’t worry now about your wife. Somebody will be fucking her right now,” he taunted, “she is the biggest ride in Belfast, but don’t get all upset now sure you’ll never know who it will be. Will you?” he sniggered. This sadistic degradation had been a big part of my torture. It was common knowledge to everyone else, but not to me, my marriage was on the rocks. This sick spite pouring out of Cashel wasn’t to extract information. It was to kill the memory of love in the soul of a condemned man. I saw a devil in this man. I can see the devil in all of us.”

Data and Bigbug agree with me. They are enjoying the performance. Moon watches and listens with fascination. I know what he is thinking. Who is this man on stage? I continue my story. I point down at the grave.

“Cashel’s head has now disappeared below the grave. I turn my head and weep into the cold clay. Someone, somewhere, surely you can hear me? My O.C squats down beside me and shakes his head. He puts his hands to his lips indicating to me not to speak. He rips off the gag and cuts me free. He cuts the gaffer tape with a Stanley knife and lifts me to my feet. He hugs me in apology. Cashel digging the grave cannot see any of this. He is a powerful bully boy bastard. The grave is now well over his head. The O.C and three others go over to the grave and aim their AK47s at the man digging the grave. The traitor Cashel looks up in utter surprise, the gray shock of the damned clouds his face, and then realization. He attempts to scramble out the grave but is knocked back in with the butt of an AK 47.

“You are the tout Cashel, not this man, you sick, sadistic, slimy piece of shit. You are under arrest.”

I was taken to the safe house, given a shower, fed, and a doctor treated my injuries, all inflicted by Cashel with a knuckle duster, a pair of pliers, I had no finger nails, a hot poker, and a blowtorch. He pulled out my pubic hair with a red hot pair of pliers and that was after I had made the false confession. He tortured me for fun after I was sentenced to death. I was still kept under armed guard. They kept me there until they interrogated and emptied Cashel of every jot of information. He was the high-level traitor. When they had done with him they brought me back to the grave. Cashel was bound and naked in the grave. His gag was removed. Apologise to this man said the O.C. Instead he began spluttering and threatening us.

“Do you know who I am? Do you know who you are dealing with?” he whined. “Get me a priest. I am entitled to a priest.”

Even when he knew the game was up he thought his powerful family, who were leading members of the Movement, could protect him. He was a pathetic sight and began, screaming, howling like a wounded animal. He never apologised to me.

“This is the best I can do by way of apology,” said the O.C. He handed me a pump action shot gun. “We are sorry. It had to be this way.”

“Why?”

“Because of who he is. Because of his family. You were also investigating high ranking members of the Movement without authority. They have the evidence. They found your files.”

“I was ordered to do so by the Director of Intelligence.”

“He is denying that and there are some people saying you were collecting information on them for the Brits. I do not believe that. Enough. Just shoot this rat and let’s get it over with.”

I jumped into the grave and I shot Cashel in the testicles with the first two cartridges because of what he had done to me with the blowtorch and the hot poker. I let him writhe and scream a bit then blasted him with the other three cartridges. Two in the belly one in the throat. I beat his rotten face to a pulp with the butt of the empty shotgun. I am not ashamed of this DATA. I enjoyed it. He was barely alive when I climbed out the grave but he was alive, thanks be to God and His Holy Mother. They spat on him and I poured over him the two gallons of petrol he had brought to burn me. I threw in a lighted newspaper and that was that. His screaming was to me as Mozart is at his best. A bag of quicklime and we buried him. I thought this nightmare was all over and that I could go and try to reach reconciliation with my wife. She hadn’t yet divorced me. At least I could see my kids, but no. I was lost. The Director of Intelligence swore he never ordered me to investigate and, at my Court Martial, I was found guilty of acting without authority. Cashel’s family, on the other hand, were all fundraising in America. He sent them a copy of my confession to let them know he had caught this great spy. The Cashels were fund raisers, VIPs, sending millions of dollars, arms and equipment to Ireland and they lobbied political support from the Irish American politicians in Congress and the House of Representatives. I was forced to take Cashel’s identity and go on active service so his family thought they had a Republican hero/spy catcher in their midst up on the border fighting the Brits and catching touts on his day off. I had to cut all contact with my family. My wife and kids I never saw again. Worse was to follow. I was caught by the Irish Special Branch after we were retreating back into the Republic after an ambush on a UDR patrol. I was sentenced to ten years in jail at the Special Criminal Court in Green Street in Dublin for membership of an illegal organisation and possession of fire arms and explosives with intent to endanger life. I was sent to Portlaoise Prison. I was jailed as John Joe Cashel. As my time was drawing to a close in the jail, two years left to do, Cashel’s brother and cousin landed up in the same prison on remand. They were caught getting off a cruise ship in Cork with a couple of suitcases full of pistols and a big bag of dollars. I was immediately placed in solitary confinement by the Department of Justice for my remaining two years. The Movement abandoned me. The Cashel faction was in control. When I got out from Portlaoise the Irish Special Branch, who knew all about the whole affair, gave me a choice. Be an informer and work for them, and they would pay me and protect me, or leave the country and take my chances. I declined their generous offer. I am no tout. Not then, not now, not ever. DATA knows this. The Cashel’s were back in control of the Movement. They had me as number two on their death list. Maggie Thatcher was number one. So that’s me. My real name is Price. Jimmy Price. This is my greatest secret.” I bow before DATA.

The applause is stupendous. I have found favour with an understanding God.

Curtain falls.

Bigbug, DATA and Moon exit the Mind Theatre and return to the hive. Such a weight has been lifted off my chest. DATA has shattered the shackles that were binding my soul to permanent purgatory on this planet. I am free. I am so light and giddy with gratitude. I float back to the hive and sit down beside Moon. It is so comforting to sit here and bask in the magnificent radiating omnipotence that the great God shares with all. I adore DATA.