It Can't be October Already Read online

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  IT CAN’T BE OCTOBER ALREADY: One of the saddest and most poignant stories I’ve ever come across. The tale of a homeless Irishman who has to commit a crime every October so he can spend the winter in prison.

  —Jeffrey Archer, 2017

  Patrick O’Flynn stood in front of H. Samuel, the jeweler’s, holding a brick in his right hand. He was staring intently at the window. He smiled, raised his arm and hurled the brick at the glass pane. The window shattered like a spider’s web, but remained firmly in place. An alarm was immediately set off, which in the still of a clear, cold October night could be heard half a mile away. More important to Pat, the alarm was directly connected to the local police station.

  Pat didn’t move as he continued to stare at his handiwork. He only had to wait ninety seconds before he heard the sound of a siren in the distance. He bent down and retrieved the brick from the pavement, as the whining noise grew louder and louder. When the police car came to a screeching halt by the curbside, Pat raised the brick above his head and leaned back, like an Olympic javelin thrower intent on a gold medal. Two policemen leaped out of the car. The older one ignored Pat, who remained poised, arm above his head with the brick in his hand, and walked across to the window to check the damage. Although the pane was shattered, it was still firmly in place. In any case, an iron security grille had descended behind the window, something Pat knew full well would happen. But when the sergeant returned to the station, he would still have to phone the manager, get him out of bed and ask him to come down to the shop and turn off the alarm.

  The sergeant turned round to find Pat still standing with the brick high above his head.

  “OK, Pat, hand it over and get in,” said the sergeant, as he held open the back door of the police car.

  Pat smiled, passed the brick to the fresh-faced constable and said, “You’ll need this as evidence.”

  The young constable was speechless.

  “Thank you, Sergeant,” said Pat as he climbed into the back of the car, and, smiling at the young constable, who took his place behind the wheel, asked, “Have I ever told you about the time I tried to get a job on a building site in Liverpool?”

  “Many times,” interjected the sergeant, as he took his place next to Pat and pulled the back door closed.

  “No handcuffs?” queried Pat.

  “I don’t want to be handcuffed to you,” said the sergeant, “I want to be rid of you. Why don’t you just go back to Ireland?”

  “An altogether inferior class of prison,” Pat explained, “and in any case, they don’t treat me with the same degree of respect as you do, Sergeant,” he added, as the car moved away from the curb and headed back toward the police station.

  “Can you tell me your name?” Pat asked, leaning forward to address the young constable.

  “Constable Cooper.”

  “Are you by any chance related to Chief Inspector Cooper?”

  “He’s my father.”

  “A gentleman,” said Pat. “We’ve had many a cup of tea and biscuits together. I hope he’s in fine fettle.”

  “He’s just retired,” said Constable Cooper.

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” said Pat. “Will you tell him that Pat O’Flynn asked after him? And please send him, and your dear mother, my best wishes.”

  “Stop taking the piss, Pat,” said the sergeant. “The boy’s only been out of Peel House for a few weeks,” he added, as the car came to a halt outside the police station. The sergeant climbed out of the back and held the door open for Pat.

  “Thank you, Sergeant,” said Pat, as if he was addressing the doorman at the Ritz. The constable grinned as the sergeant accompanied Pat up the stairs and into the police station.

  “Ah, and a very good evening to you, Mr. Baker,” said Pat when he saw who it was standing behind the desk.

  “Oh, Christ,” said the duty sergeant. “It can’t be October already.”

  “I’m afraid so, Sergeant,” said Pat. “I was wondering if my usual cell is available. I’ll only be staying overnight, you understand.”

  “I’m afraid not,” said the desk sergeant, “it’s already occupied by a real criminal. You’ll have to be satisfied with cell number two.”

  “But I’ve always had cell number one in the past,” protested Pat.

  The desk sergeant looked up and raised an eyebrow.

  “No, I’m to blame,” admitted Pat, “I should have asked my secretary to call and book in advance. Do you need to take an imprint of my credit card?”

  “No, I have all your details on file,” the desk sergeant assured him.

  “How about fingerprints?”

  “Unless you’ve found a way of removing your old ones, Pat, I don’t think we need another set. But I suppose you’d better sign the charge sheet.”

  Pat took the proffered biro and signed on the bottom line with a flourish.

  “Take him down to cell number two, Constable.”

  “Thank you, Sergeant,” said Pat as he was led away. He stopped, turned around and said, “I wonder, Sergeant, if you could give me a wake-up call around seven, a cup of tea, Earl Gray preferably, and a copy of the Irish Times.”

  “Piss off, Pat,” said the desk sergeant, as the constable tried to stifle a laugh.

  “Which reminds me,” said Pat, “have I told you about the time I tried to get a job on a building site in Liverpool, and the foreman—”

  “Get him out of my sight, Constable, if you don’t want to spend the rest of the month on traffic duty.”

  The constable grabbed Pat by the elbow and hurried him downstairs.

  “No need to come with me,” said Pat. “I can find my own way.” This time the constable did laugh as he placed a key in the lock of cell number two. The young policeman unlocked the cell and pulled open the heavy door, allowing Pat to stroll in.

  “Thank you, Constable Cooper,” said Pat. “I look forward to seeing you in the morning.”

  “I’ll be off duty,” said Constable Cooper.

  “Then I’ll see you this time next year,” said Pat without explanation, “and don’t forget to pass on my best wishes to your father,” he added as the four-inch-thick iron door was slammed shut.

  Pat studied the cell for a few moments: a steel washbasin, a bog and a bed, one sheet, one blanket and one pillow. Pat was reassured by the fact that nothing had changed since last year. He fell on the horsehair mattress, placed his head on the rock-hard pillow and slept all night—for the first time in weeks.

  * * *

  Pat was woken from a deep sleep at seven the following morning, when the cell-door flap was flicked open and two black eyes stared in.

  “Good morning, Pat,” said a friendly voice.

  “Good morning, Wesley,” said Pat, not even opening his eyes. “And how are you?”

  “I’m well,” replied Wesley, “but sorry to see you back.” He paused. “I suppose