Known to the Gardai (a story)
Creachadóir MacIntyre was a woman’s man. Or so they thought. They gathered around him and flirted with him. They hung on his every word and deed that they knew of. He took every advantage of their lust for him. And picked out a few as tribute for all his time and attention that having them around took on him. For every middle aged one who hung on his every word, he slew a young buxom wench and thought it was his due.
The ladies closest to him made sure there was no bad press about him. They cleaned up after him. And ran his clubs full of women. Just so they could be seen as his intimes.
All was well in his lands, till a couple ladies slipped out of a club and headed for a feuding neighbour’s lands. He gave them succor and safety and told them what their life would be like from now on. If only they talked to the Garda. So they called 999.
Creachadóir was taken before the ceartas. Again and again, but seemed like teflon. Lots of stories, but nothing stuck.
Till the sergeant heard of the case and decided there was something going on they hadn’t seen before. He grouped the stories into the crazy, the jealous, the forlorn, the whores and the liars. He set down the patterns, then looked for the common story, or what the police call the modus operandi. And saw that Creachadóir had a common fantasy that he pedalled to the ladies of his court as just a fun nursery rhyme. But these ladies had lived to say there was more going on than just a fun tale.
The sergeant was sad at heart that it had taken so many gossip tales and fantasies to see the truth, but he sat with each one who had lost her case and made it clear. From now on, whatever else happened, Creachadóir was now known to the gardai. He was no longer made of teflon. The next time he put a foot wrong, they’d have him by the balls. And he thanked them for their diligence and said the gardai would be watching Creachadóir closely now.
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