BigMac moaned, his stick was too short. He couldn’t reach the wet mat of infected flesh that burned in the small of his back. He released the mop and it stayed where it was, wedged between his smooth hide and the flattened mattress.
He moaned again, a deep sonorous low, like a ships foghorn emerging from the salty dark. There is an idea. An idea of a voice, so mellifluous that it’s sound can bind the mind, can infiltrate like the song of a succubean siren. Helen had a voice like that, and jet black hair, straight and glossy like a light freshwater
stream. She spoke now, gently stroking BigMac’s bulk with her curled fingers.
’Easy big man. Calm your mewing pet.’
As she stood by his vast unsettled head, one great eye rolled to catch her. She smiled, bent down, and with an effort raised a bucket to his elephantine lips. With a noise like a bath draining, he gluged the creamy stew.
’There you go. Lovely food.’
’Now, my big brave boy. You must do the special thing.’
With a soft flap like a raw 30 ounce steak striking a plate, BigMac’s brow furrowed. His great head began to saw from left to right, and his burstwurst lips pursed, as the room rocked to the hum of his groan.
Helen stepped back, frowned and drew the needle from it’s guard, flashed it for a moment before Big Mac’s eyes, then gored it under a ridge of belly, deep into his chump. He grunted, and was silent. Bubbles of treacly sweat dewing from under a mat of itchy scalp grass.
’There, baby doesn’t like the needle.’
One unblinking eye moved like a great wet jellyfish to follow her as she walked around him, peeling on her surgical gloves.
As she climbed astride his torso, BigMac flapped his great fleshy hands uselessly, clenching each fat finger as she began to tug the sausage link umbilical that forever connected them.
’Now’, she whispered, squeezing each link to pump the hot mucky flow between them, ’the special thing’.
Softly he nodded, as though his great loaf were composed of slow congealing gelatin, as though his cornea were coloured leaves on pools of saline. In a soft voice, like a weak lunged child, he began to speak.
’In Ainm na Tríonóide Ró-Naofa is tobar don uile údarás agus gur chuici, ós í is críoch dheireanach dúinn, is dírithe ní amháin gníomhartha daoine ach gníomhartha Stát.’
’That’s it, that’s it’, Helen said, drying his septic tears with a torn tricolour. Later she would tease his bedsores like damp lady moss, but for now it was enough. Rejected by all right thinking humans they might be, but the family of the Irish were happy.