Snuffing out the last of the candles on the high altar at St Gabriel's, Vinny Fitzpatrick knew he'd had a good Holy Communion, if not a great one. On a scale of 10, he'd give himself a "can do better" five.

“If Dunphy was reviewing that performance, I’d get slaughtered,” he thought to himself.

As chief sacristan, Vinny’s touch was usually secure but on Saturday morning he’d performed like a novice. He’d missed the cue for the first bell; spilled a drop of wine from the cruets, and, worst of all, left a bunch of flowers for the organist behind in the sacristy.

Popping his clogs

Why was his timing off? Perhaps the funeral ahead of Holy Communion was partly responsible, not that anyone could blame Jem Jones for popping his clogs in his 90th year.

As Jem’s coffin left the church and locals paid their last respect to the former printer, there was the incongruous sight of girls in curls and white dresses, and gelled Teddy Boys in snappy suits, playing tip ’n’ tag around the hearse.

With six classes covering 170 kids in St Boru’s NS, the sacrament ceremony was split over two weekends, but even so the church was filled to the gunnels with kids, parents, godparents, relatives and teachers. Many, many teachers.

Fussy educators

As Fr Leo Lavelle’s church liaison officer, Vinny was responsible for running through the order of play with the teachers from St Boru’s. With each meeting, his dislike of the fussy educators, all female, grew. They wanted everything done their way and when it was agreed, they then changed things around, much to Vinny’s exasperation.

For the final briefing in the sacristy on Thursday evening, Vinny had banged his fat fist on the table and pleaded, “Can we please make some progress, whether it’s backwards or forwards?”

There had been a murmur of protest before a general consensus on the running order for Saturday, which was duly tweaked before, and even during, the service.

“Teacher knows best, my armpit,” snorted Vinny as he made a final sweep of the pews, where he collected two purses, five gloves, a €10 note and a shiny Communion medal from 1931.

Deep down, Vinny knew his indifferent display as sacristan-in-charge wasn’t entirely due to the fusspot teachers, rather his state of well-being over the lightning strike action by Dublin Bus workers.

For all the chest-thumping of union heads in Clontarf depot, it gnawed at Vinny that punters had already been discommoded for two days, and were facing further disruption.

By the end of May, the streets of Dublin would be shorn of their chariots for five more days, at great inconvenience to the public, and at significant cost to the company.

While Vinny reckoned the drivers might win this particular battle, the spoils of war would probably be beyond them, and he could get caught in the crossfire.

At 57, Vinny was a 35-year lifer, vulnerable to the axe. The thought chilled him, for he had no other skills to offer.

Sentinel pulpits

After making a mental note to update the St Gabriel’s website with the list of items he’d found, Vinny paused to admire the altar, complete with its sentinel pulpits, and stained glass backdrop of Mother Mary, designed by Harry Clarke.

The mosaic of reds, greens and purples were a feature of the church, especially when the sun was at full bore, as it was now.

As he observed his baldy silhouette, Vinny became aware of a second shadow on the glass; someone had just entered the church behind him. The newcomer’s outline moved up the glass before coming to a stop close by.

Instantly, Vinny’s blood chilled for there was no mistaking the sticky-out ears of his nemesis, Lugs O’Leary. “Saying your prayers, Fitzpatrick?” hissed Lugs.

Vinny turned to face his arch enemy. “Alright, Lugs,” he said hoarsely. “What brings you here?”

Lugs was a craggy, ugly, brute who ruled by fear and fisticuffs. He certainly wasn't in church to see if anyone had handed in a missing glove. "You've brought me here, not God, not Leo Lavelle, but you, Mr Blobby. And I think you know why," said Lugs.

“See, the word on the street is that you’re taking more than a passing interest in my wife’s well-being. I know you fancy a bet but this is one slip I suggest you rip up. Get my meaning, you wobbly weasel.”

Vinny stammered as he took a step back. “I don’t know what you mean, Lugs. Someone has put two and two together and come up with 10.”

Bold step

As the two adversaries, one tall and muscular, the other short and squat, squared up to one another, the smaller man took a bold step, one he would later regret. “As for you Lugs, I take it you’ve nothing to hide in your, er, GAA, closet? Nothing, for instance, that could possibly conflict with the marital vows you took in this church all those years ago.”

As the implications of Vinny’s rejoinder hit home, Lugs narrowed his black soulless eyes and stepped forward, so close that Vinny could smell the blast of garlic of his foul breath. “Why you miserable tub of lard,” hissed Lugs, as he lashed out with a right cross which caught Vinny flush on his hairy hooter.

Vinny heard a noise like sea shells crunching underfoot, saw a spurt of blood, and then slipped back in agony. As he tripped on the steps of the altar, and fell backwards, his large head smacked against the shiny marble edge. After that, Vinny felt nothing.