Uploaded from External Memory Device while listening to 1798 to 1998, Irish Songs of Resistance, Rebellion and Reconciliation, The Gold Collection

Alter-world title: Our troubles are only beginning

Two ancient, wizened, tall, coughing, grumbling, darkly be-cloaked and deep-hooded figures enter slowly, limping, dragging, as if burdened with an enormous weight, to face each other by a tabular rock in obscure light. Something enormous glows in the far distance.

Bosch: Our figures do not agree with yours.

Lombe: Our figures do not agree with yours. They are not in agreement.

Bosch: Since Our figures are definitive, you must have miscalculated.

Lombe: On the contrary. Our figures show well beyond any reasonable doubt that your figures are wrong.

Bosch: Our figures are proven.

Lombe: By which figures are your figures proven?

Bosch: By none other than those finally tallied together at the last official count of the ultima presidium of Chief Enumerating Officers, in the Archival Long Hall of the Chamber of Calculations, in the middle of the Capital.

Which official body is it that validates your figures?

Lombe: Our figures have been honoured with the official stamp of the Combine of Figures.

Bosch: (Momentarily discombobulated, scratching) But which of these two bodies has precedence?

Lombe: That still stands in dispute.

Bosch: I know. You have counterfeited your figures.

Lombe: I, no, you have counterfeited your figures!

Moments pass. They stare. They sigh and grumble.

Bosch: (Conciliatory) Perhaps the figures could be viewed as complementary, perhaps they can be combined. Perhaps they can even be presented jointly?

Lombe: (Snorting) Ridiculous! Beyond belief! What are you? Agent! Provocateur! Our figures will never attempt to commingle. There can only ever be one correctly expressed set of figures. We will never accept your fraudulent figures. Never accept them.

Bosch: (passionately, closing into Lombe’s face with his long finger extended threateningly) We will never accept your fraudulent figures!

More grumbling moments pass. Some bright man-made light like a powerful torch or a lighthouse flashes twice in rapid succession behind them.

Lombe: This can’t go on much longer, the figures must be decided, one way or the other. (turns around and walks away, coming to a halt a few paces away)

Bosch: (aggressively, pointing at Lombe’s back) One way or the other. I won’t allow this to continue much longer.

Lombe: (Softening as he turns back around to face Bosch) Look! How about this? Why don’t we swap figures?

You count up my figures and I count up your figures and then we’ll see if we can’t come to some species of agreement.

Bosch: (Slyly) Snap! Just as I was about to suggest. It’s not such an impasse after all. I’m so relieved. I thought we were returning to blows. Blows. I think the veins in my neck and my wrist were about to explode, phew. (Exhales hugely, slaps his knee delightedly.) So. OK. You’ll count up my figures and I’ll count up your figures and we’ll see if we can’t come to some species of agreement. Then won’t we see exactly where we are?

Lombe: Exactly where we are.

Darkness. Bosch and Lombe exit slowly , mumbling calculations like penitential prayers beneath their breath.

Dave Lordan was born in Derby in 1975 and grew up in Clonakilty. His latest collection, Invitation to a Sacrifice was published by Salmon last year.