The Conch and the Beast

We were awoken every morning by the hooning of Lawwell blowing on the conch. He’d discovered that not only was the pink shell a symbol of leadership but if you chopped the end off it you could use it as a horn to gather the survivors of the Celtic AGM crash around you. And if they didn’t come when he blew the conch he still had his trusty horse whip to change their minds.

The conch wasn’t the only symbol on the island. Lawwell had stuck a severed pig’s head on a stick and placed it at the edge of our camp in order he claimed, to scare off the beast who lived in the dark beyond our boundary. No one but Lawwell had seen this beast but some of us had heard snuffling in the foliage and once, as the sun set, we all heard an inhuman howling from the jungle which set everyone on edge and I doubt anyone slept properly that night. The next day Lawwell came out of his makeshift tent, naked and covered in green dye, vowing to go on his own to hunt the beast for all our goods. All he wanted in return was our complete subservience. Well since most of the survivors were Scottish journalists, he had this anyway but you know how Lawwell is; nothing is ever enough, no distance too far, no act too awful to further the cause of Celtic.

The day passed slowly and I lazed on the sand listening to the waves while the BBC boys stayed huddled around the fire they’d made on the first day and had kept burning constantly fearing that it might run out and bring the beast into the camp. They whispered and argued with each other and seemed to be planning something but anytime I got close enough to hear, they clammed up and eyed me suspiciously until I took the hint and went back to the sea. As the sun set and darkness encroached, all the other little parties gathered on the beach and built their own fires, the boys from the Mail here, the Express there, STV close to the woods and me, the sole representative of the Times hopping from fire to fire looking for companionship and finding none, being shoo-ed away by everyone who had heat and light so I joined the lads from the Sun and the Daily Record who huddled together under a tree because they didn’t know how to make a fire.

A scream in the distance had all our eyes popping as we strained to see into the blackness of the jungle, eager to know what caused such a horrible noise. Then the howling started up but from a different direction than the scream. Then the hooning of the conch which could only be Lawwell. That did it for me and I ran into the circle of fires and dared anyone to shift me but they were all too busy shaking in horror at what might come out of the night to notice me. Then a figure strode out of the dusk, dragging something behind it and waving the conch in the air in triumph – it was Lawwell. ‘I have the beast’ he shouted and threw a muddied and bloodied figure into the circle of fires and without hesitation the assembled hacks of the Scottish media laid into it with their sticks and rocks, screaming and tearing at it as someone started hammering on drums and we all descended into a base, animalistic frenzy of blood lust until what was left was a gory mess which floated pleasingly into the sea once we were finished with it and afterwards Lawwell accepted our plaudits and oaths of loyalty as he stood naked with the conch raised high above his head, the moonlight glistening on the blood which covered his body. It wasn’t until later that Gerry Duffy sidled up to me and said, ‘that was Chic Young. That was murder.’