They had arrived at the station, callow young men who little knew what lay ahead of them in their frontline squadron of the Honorable Society of Debt Collectors, Bailiffs and Evictors. Their commanding officer, whom active service had aged prematurely, inspected them after they'd unpacked their kit. "Stand easy," he said. "Welcome chaps. Welcome to the cutting edge of the enterprise society. You arrive as boys." He paused. "But by Jove, you'll leave as men." He paused again. "Those of you that leave, that is. Truth is, some of you won't make it. But you're volunteers to a man, and by God, I'm proud to know every man jack of you, and proud as Punch to have you in my command."
The OC was a man of few words and fewer emotions, but the men could see he was deeply moved - as he had ever reason to be, for the life expectancy of a young bailiff in action could be measured in days. His kid brother, whom he'd minded since their old man had been killed during a gallant attempt to seize an escrow in lieu of a debt owed by a certain De Lorean, had in turn copped a packet during the foreclosure on a small field near Listowel owned by a madman named Bull McCabe.
Debt-defaulters
In the mess that evening, the OC tried to buck some of the chaps up. "We might be as plain a bunch of coves as ever kicked a rugger ball, but by heavens, I'd like to see society get by without us. People don't like debt-defaulters. Trouble is, they don't like us either. But we've got a job to do and we'll do it, without fear of favour or thanks."
He tapped his pipe on the mess fireplace. "Time to turn in. Got a tough day tomorrow. Take my advice and get a bit of shut-eye. Goodnight chaps."
"Good night, sir," came the cheerful reply. On his way back to his quarters the OC paused to wipe a tear from his eye. "Boys," he said to the darkening night. "Mere boys, and lambs to the slaughter."
The first to cop it was young Prendergast, who was sent to requisition goods on the foot of an unpaid animals feed bill. He seems to have been lured into a bog near Limerick and was never seen again. Then Somerville, just back from his honeymoon, was sent to commandeer furniture in lieu from a German who had not paid his rent in several years and who played marches continuously on his wind-up gramophone, night and day. Somerville gave his wristwatch to his best friend, shook everybody's hand, and went off on the dawn patrol.
The fiendish tenant was waiting for him. Though he was from Munich, he was disguised as a Hamburger. Beware the hun in the bun is an old adage in the bailiff-game, but Somerville remembered it too late, and he too went west. The German was arrested and put on trial. The judge, with judgely wisdom, namely none, awarded him a state pension for life and awarded defence costs against Somerville's widow Sue, who by that time had given birth to the child that her young husband never knew, a bouncing young bailiff called Grabbit.
Dark places
The men got to know areas where they went in fear of their lives, dark places where the natives eat their young and think that road tax are nails you put in front of a neighbour's car. "They know nothing of civilisation there, chaps," said the OC during one briefing. "They know nothing..." and he lowered his voice as if were uttering an obscenity, "about estrepement. They think that estreat is a city lane with houses, and their poor pagan souls have never heard of estovers, estoppels, essoins, estrangers and estrays."
Even these now-hardened veterans of car-reclamations, video-confiscations and farm-machinery requisitions reeled. Could it be possible that there were such people, lost to all decency? Surely not.
The missions grew more dangerous, and the empty places in the mess hall afterwards more numerous. Fresh faces appeared, simple happy chattering boys, and the older men would exchange glances, for they knew the newcomers could not possibly survive the ops ahead, the Hiace to be reclaimed from the halting site outside Abbeyfeale, the large screen television to be removed from a top flat in Ballymun, the £10,000 Sony Sensoround Sound System from a tenement in Ballybough.
The big one
Daily, the men were given their written orders, and with grey and pasty faces would depart, many prepared for the worst, but never entirely without hope. Until the dark day came when the OC walked in the ops room, the chaps sitting round reading magazines and smoking in carefully assumed attitudes of languor, their bailiff-helmets beside them. He said nothing, but his cement-coloured face said everything. This was the big one.
"Men, I have here a court order for the seizure of goods worth £1 million." There was a murmur of excitement through the room. "The applicant is The Sunday Times. And the subject is one Thomas `Slab' Murphy."
There was then a single revolver shot as the OC shot himself. His next in command lifted the handgun and put it to his head. "After you with that, old fellow," said the third in command. "Me next," said the fourth.
"Anyone got any spare ammo?" whimpered the seventh.