Phillis O’Malley The Menopausal Banshee

There are few sounds in Ireland more terrifying than the cry of a banshee.

The old people say that when you hear her keening in the dead of night, someone in your family is about to shuffle off this mortal coil. Her hair hangs long and silver, her eyes are red from weeping, and her wail can curdle milk, freeze blood and send a grown man running for the holy water.

What they don’t tell you is that a banshee can also suffer from hot flushes, chronic fatigue and brain fog that makes you walk into a room and forget whether you’re there to collect a soul or put the kettle on.

And they certainly don’t tell you what happens when a banshee reaches fifty-two, hasn’t slept properly since the Celtic Tiger was in its prime, and has a husband who thinks emotional support means shouting, “Have you tried going to bed earlier, love?”That banshee was Phillis O’Malley.

And she was absolutely sick of the whole bloody business.

For six hundred and forty-three years, Phillis had served as the official banshee to the O’Malley, O’Reilly, Murphy and assorted other families whose ancestors had made the catastrophic mistake of being born in Ireland.

Six centuries of shrieking outside bedroom windows, wailing over dying patriarchs and hovering dramatically over thatched cottages while some gobshite inside insisted he was grand and only had a bit of indigestion.

Had anyone ever said thank you?

Had they feck.

“Ungrateful shower,” Phillis muttered, standing on a damp hillside overlooking County Meath.

Below her, a farmer lay dying. His family sobbed while the eldest son argued about funeral costs and the youngest daughter took photographs because, apparently, grief wasn’t official until it had been uploaded to Facebook.

Phillis drew herself up, shook out her long grey hair and opened her mouth to deliver a blood-curdling wail.

A sudden heat surged through her body.

“Oh, for the love of Jaysus!”

She fanned the collar of her black dress.

“Not now. Not bloody now.”

Sweat trickled down her neck, which was particularly unfair considering she was technically dead.

“Kevin! KEVIN!”

From down the lane came the clatter of hooves and the groaning wheels of the Cóiste Bodhar, the Death Coach of Irish folklore, which carried souls to the other side.

It was driven by Phillis’s husband, Kevin O’Malley.

Kevin was the Headless Horseman.

He was also, in Phillis’s considered opinion, a lazy bollix.

The great black coach thundered around the bend, pulled by skeletal horses with glowing red eyes. Its door flew open.

Kevin sat on the driver’s bench, his head tucked under one arm.

“What’s the matter now, love?”

“What’s the matter? I’m having another flush, Kevin! I can feel my soul trying to escape through my armpits!”

“You haven’t got armpits, love. You’re dead.”

“THANK YOU, KEVIN! THAT’S EXACTLY THE KIND OF EMPATHY I’VE COME TO EXPECT FROM YOU!”

Kevin sighed.

“Are we collecting yer man or not? I’ve the horses booked in for a shoeing at midnight.”

“The horses are dead, Kevin.”

“Still need their shoes done.”

Phillis closed her eyes. She had once loved this man with a passion that could have set fire to the Cliffs of Moher. Now, after centuries of marriage, she suspected the only reason she hadn’t strangled him was that she couldn’t remember where she’d put the rope.

“Fine. Let’s collect the poor unfortunate and go home. I’ve a splitting headache, me feet are killing me, and I’ve a hankering for cheese-and-onion crisps!

She glided towards the farmhouse, let out a mournful wail and waited for the farmer’s soul to rise.

Nothing happened.

She wailed again.

Still nothing.

“Oh, for"

A pale figure finally floated through the bedroom wall.

“Am I dead?” he asked.

Phillis consulted her ledger. The letters swam before her eyes.

“Name?”

“Patrick Murphy.”

She squinted at the page.

“Patrick McMurphy… McDonagh… Ah, that’ll do. In you get.”

“But I’m only forty-seven!”

“Look, darling, I’m not the HSE. I don’t make the rules.”

She ushered him into the coach, Kevin slammed the door, and the horses hurtled into the night.

Only when Phillis arrived home did she discover her mistake.

Patrick Murphy was alive and asleep in his bed, due to run the Dublin City Marathon the following morning. The soul she’d taken belonged to his neighbour, seventy-nine-year-old Patrick McDonagh.

Now Patrick Murphy was sitting in her kitchen, eating a biscuit and asking if the afterlife had Wi-Fi.

Phillis stared at him.

Kevin, who had finally put his head back on, looked between them.

“Well,” he said. “That’s a bit of a balls.”

Phillis burst into tears.

Not a delicate, ethereal weep, but a full, snotty, shoulder-shaking bawl that frightened the crows.

“I CAN’T DO THIS ANYMORE!”

Patrick dropped his biscuit. Kevin reached for the kettle.

Somewhere in the distance, the ancient bells of Ireland began to toll.

For the first time in six hundred and forty-three years, the banshee had stolen a living man’s soul.

By half past midnight, Phillis had established three things.

Patrick Murphy was very much alive. His soul was sitting in her kitchen wearing slippers she’d knitted for Kevin’s birthday. And she had no idea where she’d left the Return of Soul form.

“Kevin, have you seen me glasses?”

“You’re wearing them, love.”

“No, I’m wearing the other pair.”

“You’ve two pairs on.”

She reached up and discovered two pairs of glasses perched on her face.

She took them off, stared at them and began to laugh. Then she began to cry again.

“I don’t know whether I’m laughing or crying anymore, Kevin!”

“That’s menopause for you, love.”

She turned on him so quickly a candle went out.

“Don’t you DARE tell me what menopause is! You have no hormones! You haven’t had a functioning head since 1847!”

Kevin put his head on the table.

Patrick raised a tentative hand, “Am I allowed to go home?”

Phillis softened, ““Of course you are, pet. We’ll get you sorted.”

Then she turned to Kevin.

“Get the coach!”

“It’s outside.”

“Get the horses!”

“They’re outside too.”

“Then WHAT ARE YOU STANDING THERE FOR?”

“I’m sitting down, love.”

Phillis stared at him. Then she laughed so hard a picture fell off the wall.

For one fleeting moment, Patrick thought she might be all right.

Then came three sharp knocks at the door.

The Department of Eternal Departures had arrived, and they weren’t known for understanding women’s health.

The inspector was a sour-faced man named Mr Cormac Grimshaw. He wore a grey suit, carried a clipboard and looked like someone who’d never enjoyed a cup of tea in his miserable existence.

“Phillis O’Malley?”

“Depends who’s asking.”

“Department of Eternal Departures. We’ve received a report of an unauthorised living soul in your possession.”

“Have you, now?”

“Is Patrick Murphy present?”

Patrick slowly raised his hand.

Mr Grimshaw marked his clipboard, “Unacceptable. You’re aware that living souls must not be removed without an authorised death certificate?”

“Am I aware? I’ve been doing the feckin’ job since before your great-grandmother was a twinkle in a leprechaun’s eye!”

“Your emotional instability is irrelevant.Silence fell.

Even the horses stopped snorting.

“Excuse me?” Phillis asked.

“Your recent performance has been substandard. Complaints include inconsistent keening, collection delays and one incident involving a banshee wail during a christening.”

“That was a funeral!”

“It was a christening.”

“The priest was ninety-four! I could barely hear the difference over the screaming!”

Mr Grimshaw continued, “You’ve also been seen wandering graveyards in your dressing gown, mistaken a postman for a deceased duke, and spent four hours keening outside a chipper because you believed the owner had died.”

“He said the place was closing permanently! How was I supposed to know he meant renovations?”

“I’m afraid your contract may be terminated.”

Phillis looked at her hands and thought of the centuries spent doing a job nobody understood. The freezing rain, the families who cursed her for bringing bad news, the souls who begged for another minute and the children frightened by her face.

She’d never even had a proper holiday. Not once. Not even a weekend in Galway.

And the hot flushes?

Dear God, the hot flushes, Something inside her snapped.

“You know what, Cormac? None of you ever listen. You send out your memos and forms and inspections.

The room grew cold, “You want me haunting and mysterious and beautiful and tragic, but God forbid I have a bad day. God forbid I forget a name, cry over a dead sparrow or need a sit-down after dragging a soul across three counties in a storm.”

Her voice rose, “I’ve given six hundred and forty-three years to this service! And what have I got to show for it? A husband who can’t find his own head, a pension that wouldn’t buy a decent coffin, and herbal teas that do absolutely NOTHING!”

The windows rattled. The candles went out.

“NO, CORMAC! I’M NOT FINISHED!”

Her scream rose into an ancient, furious wail that rolled across the hills of Ireland.

This time, it wasn’t a warning of death, It was a warning to anyone who had ever taken a woman for granted.

 Somewhere in Dublin, every clock stopped. Every dog in County Meath howled. And every man who’d ever said, “Ah, sure, it’s only hormones,” felt an inexplicable urge to apologise to his wife.

Mr Grimshaw dropped his clipboard,Patrick covered his ears.

Kevin smiled proudly, “That’s my girl,” he murmured. Then Phillis fainted.

Because even supernatural rage, it turned out, was no match for menopause!

When Phillis came round, she was lying on the sofa with a cold cloth on her forehead. Kevin sat beside her. Patrick was reading Ireland’s Own, and Mr Grimshaw was making tea.

“What’s he doing here?” Phillis croaked,

“Your wail caused an administrative collapse in the Otherworld,” Kevin explained. “All the death certificates have been mixed up.”

Phillis sat upright, “How bad?”

Mr Grimshaw cleared his throat, “We’ve accidentally sent the souls of three hundred and twelve living people to the Otherworld.”

“THREE HUNDRED AND TWELVE”

“And, regrettably, returned several deceased people to their bodies.”

“Cormac, that is NOT a return policy! You can’t put a dead man back in his body like leftover shepherd’s pie!”

Patrick raised his hand, “Does this mean I’m going to die?”

“No, pet. Not if I can help it.”

Phillis swung her legs off the sofa. Her knees cracked, “Jesus, Mary and Joseph. I sound like a bag of gravel.”

Kevin offered his arm,“Shall we, then?”

 For all his faults, Kevin had stood beside her for centuries. He’d held her hand when they’d lost their own son, carried her home after a terrible winter storm and quietly started keeping a fan in the coach when her hot flushes began.

It wasn’t much, but it was something, She squeezed his arm, “Right. Let’s fix this mess.”

Then she pointed at Mr Grimshaw, “And YOU are coming with us.”

“I’m an administrator!”

“And I’m a menopausal banshee! We’re all having a terrible night, Cormac!”The next twelve hours were the longest in the history of the Otherworld.

 The Death Coach thundered across Ireland through misty bogs, moonlit villages and lonely ruins. Phillis sat beside Kevin, clutching her ledger and a packet of chocolate biscuits. Mr Grimshaw rode in the back with Patrick Murphy, who was beginning to find the adventure rather exciting.

“Is it always like this?” Patrick asked.

“No,” said Phillis., “Usually it’s worse,” said Kevin.

“KEVIN!”

“Sorry, love.”

Their first stop was a nursing home in Kildare, where a retired schoolteacher named Mrs Byrne had been mistakenly declared dead. Her soul was sitting in a pub, enjoying whiskey with three men who’d died during the War of Independence.

“I’m not going back,” Mrs Byrne announced. “I’ve spent forty years teaching ungrateful little brats, and now I’ve finally got some peace.”

“Mrs Byrne, you’re still alive,” Phillis said gently.

“Am I?”

“Afraid so.”

“That’s disappointing.”

“I know, love. I’ve had days like that myself.” Mrs Byrne sighed and returned to her body. Next, they found a retired postman who’d been mistakenly resurrected and was charging people twenty euro for blessings.

 By dawn, safely restored a rather disappointed Patrick to his bed, just on time to get up for his marathon, And they’d recovered nearly all the missing souls.

Nearly, One remained: a young man named Seán O’Rourke, whose soul had been sent to the Otherworld by mistake. When they reached his cottage, the bed was empty, the window open and a note lay on the pillow.

 Gone fishing, Back whenever Phillis read it twice, “Gone fishing”

Kevin nodded, “Looks like it.”

“His soul has gone fishing?”

“Seems so.”

Phillis stared at the morning sky. She could feel another hot flush creeping up her neck, a headache gathering behind her eyes and the familiar fog settling into her thoughts.

For the first time in centuries, she didn’t care, “Right. I’m going home.”

“But we haven’t found Seán!” Mr Grimshaw protested.

“Then he can enjoy his fishing. I’ll collect him when he’s good and ready.”

“You can’t abandon your duties!”

“Cormac, if that man is dead, he’ll stay dead a few hours longer. If I’m not home in twenty minutes, I may murder my husband. And as far as I know, there isn’t a department in this universe that can process that paperwork.”

 Kevin tucked his head under his arm, “She’s serious, Cormac.”For once, the inspector didn’t argue.

When Phillis returned home, the sun was shining, the birds were singing and the world looked almost offensively cheerful.

 She took off her black dress, put on her fluffy slippers and made herself a cup of tea. Then she sat in her favourite chair, pulled a blanket over her knees and stared out at the garden.

 Kevin appeared carrying toast., “Here you go, love.”

“What’s this?”

“Toast.”

“I can see it’s toast, Kevin. Why are you giving it to me?”

“Because you haven’t eaten since yesterday.”

She looked at the toast, then at Kevin, and suddenly began to cry, “Oh, Kevin. Nobody ever looks after me.”

His face softened., “I know.”

“I look after everyone. Every family, every soul. I spend my nights freezing on hillsides and wandering through graveyards, and I can’t remember the last time someone asked how I was doing.”

 Kevin took her hand, “How are you doing, Phillis?”, For a long moment, she couldn’t speak.Then she sniffed.“Absolutely shite, if I’m being honest.”

Kevin nodded solemnly., “Fair enough.”

She leaned against his shoulder. “I think I need a break.”

“Then take one.”

“Can I?”

“Of course you can.”

“But what about the souls?”

“They’ll still be there tomorrow.”

“What about the Department?”

“Feck the Department.”Phillis lifted her head and smiled. For all his infuriating faults, her headless husband had just said something romantic.

“Kevin O’Malley, I believe you’ve just said something romantic.”

“Don’t tell anyone. It’ll ruin my reputation.”She laughed.

For the first time in a very long time, the sound filling the cottage wasn’t a wail of grief or a scream of frustration. It was the sound of a woman who’d finally given herself permission to be tired, imperfect and in need of a hand.

Outside, the Death Coach stood silent beneath the trees. The skeletal horses grazed, and the ancient road to the Otherworld lay quiet beneath the morning mist.

Somewhere in the distance, a soul called for Phillis.She ignored it, She pulled the blanket higher.

“PHILLIS! YOU’RE NEEDED!”

She closed her eyes.“Tell them I’m at me sister’s.”“Your sister’s been dead since 1722, love,” Kevin reminded her.

“THEN THEY CAN’T VERY WELL CHECK, CAN THEY?”

And with that, the great banshee of Ireland settled deeper into her chair, took a bite of toast and enjoyed the first day off she’d had in six hundred and forty-three years.

 It was, without question, the most peaceful day in the history of the O’Malley household.

 Until Kevin asked where he’d put his head.But that’s another story.

Three weeks later, the Department of Eternal Departures issued a new directive.

 Following a comprehensive review of banshee welfare, all supernatural employees were entitled to twenty-eight days of annual leave, a proper pension, regular breaks during soul collection and a workplace menopause policy.

 They were also granted the right to refuse overtime and, in exceptional circumstances, tell Mr Cormac Grimshaw to take a running jump into the nearest bog.

Phillis framed the directive and hung it above the fireplace.

She also began keeping her soul ledger in a bright pink folder labelled IMPORTANT DO NOT LOSE, YOU ABSOLUTE Eejit

 She still suffered from brain fog. She still occasionally forgot whether she’d collected a soul or ordered a takeaway. She cried at advertisements featuring dogs, shouted at Kevin for breathing too loudly and once spent an entire evening keening over a garden gnome she’d mistaken for a recently deceased bishop.

But she was learning. Learning that being tired didn’t make her useless. That needing help didn’t make her weak. That she could be funny and furious, kind and cranky, ancient and utterly fed up, all at the same time.

every now and then, when the moon was full and mist rolled across the fields, the people of Ireland would hear the terrible, beautiful wail of Phillis O’Malley.

They’d cross themselves, lock their doors and gather their children close, whispering that death was coming.

But if they listened carefully, beneath the haunting cry, they might hear something else.

A muttered curse about Kevin leaving his head on the kitchen table.

Or the unmistakable words ;“If one more person dies on me day off, so help me God I’ll haunt the lot of ye”!

 And somewhere down the old road, the Cóiste Bodhar would thunder through the darkness, driven by a headless horseman who loved his wife dearly.

Even if he still hadn’t learned to put the feckin’ toilet seat down