AN OLD DEBT
AN OLD DEBT By MALCOLM HILL There’s one they call Dunnolly. He sits with others wearing an old army overcoat outside the deserted Tavern. The others are wary of Dunnolly. He stands off from them, kicking at the dirt. They know he is wound up tight as a golf ball; to approach him could set off an unraveling. At times he is taken up by purpose, but at others times he is the lowest of the species, twisting his arms around his head, snarling at benches and footpaths. The rebels loathe each other yet cling desperately to each other’s company. At night they bunk down in the basement below the Tavern kept madly awake by rats and the fear of being robbed by one of their kind. Or that one of their brothers should depart and leave them on their own. The morning light streams through the cracks in the Tavern walls. Hearing the footsteps of people walking past above, they call out, “Got any coins, any bits of iron we can sell for ...