Short Stories

Hair of the snake

‘Keys, money, mobile, hair…. Keys, money, mobile, hair…. Keys, money, mobile, hair.’

My pre-departure routine is complete. Everything’s there. Keys to get back in. Money to show how wealthy I am. Mobile to call, text and scroll. And hair to get a free meal. Not the hair on my head. I have only a few loose threads clinging to my scalp after 40 years in Ireland. The hair I'm bringing with me is kept in a small ziplock plastic bag. Gathered from a place on my body where hair refuses to stop growing. The ziplock bag I use is small enough to fit into that tiny pocket that sits to the right at the top of my jeans. You know the one. The one some people use to store their drugs or a spare fifty. Well, I don’t use it for any of that. I use it for my hair.

I’m out the front door and into my new Mercedes. Red light after red light delays my progress to the restaurant. Ballsbridge is a nightmare today. There’s a man passing between cars with a sleeping bag wrapped around his shoulders and his hand held out. Back in my day people earned a living by selling newspapers when cars were stopped at lights. Now people expect you to give them money for free. I dig into my wood panelled glove box and find some expired vouchers for Dunnes. The lights have turned green but I ignore the beeps. I wait for the man to race up to my half open window. I stuff the vouchers in his hand and catch the lights just before they turn red. It's hard to make out his face in the rear view mirror from laughing so much. All I can see is his stupid mouth hanging open trying to understand what’s in his hand.

I jog the last two metres to the restaurant door to make it look like I’ve been rushing the whole time. The Maître d' isn’t happy to see me. What looks like anger stiffens the smile that cloaks his face. I think about giving some excuse but I don’t see why I should have to. I just raise my chin to gain the illusion of height and look down at him. He leads me to my table that is uncomfortably close to a man wearing a v-neck t-shirt that reveals more than I’m used to seeing. His smooth chest is puffed out from what must be a recent gym session. A silver pendant of some new-age hippy-kind hangs between his bronze pectoral muscles. I shake my head in something my conscious mind mistakes as despair. I thought the price alone of this Italian sounding restaurant would be enough to keep the riff-raff out. Or at least have a dress code that would enforce respectable attire. 

The chicken Kiev arrives soon after my bottle of 2014 merlot. I ordered these because my pallet only accepts sweet wines and because I support Ukraine. I also ordered it because I can drink the entire bottle and eat three quarters of the meal and then “discover” the hair that I strategically tuck into the last bite of chicken. The meal itself is scrumptious. Dessert would no doubt be the next question from the ill attentive waiter who has disappeared somewhere. Before he returns I dig a greasy finger into that tiny pocket of my jeans. I extract the zip lock bag from under the table as I cast a furtive glance around the other diners. I have some trouble getting purchase on the plastic zip but experience gets me through this dextrous hazard. The hair is stuffed into the last bit of chicken within the space of fifteen seconds. Almost a personal best.

The Maître d' is soon on top of me. His raised finger silences me before I have a chance to speak. He picks up my plate and beckons me to follow him. I’m led past the perspiring bartenders shaking mixers like maracas. Into the kitchen where fire flashes from pans like exploding bombs and orders are barked from chefs like soldiers trapped in a fox hole. Into a prison cell sized room we arrive. On a single chair sits the head chef. Behind him stands someone who looks like the manager. In front of them sits a screen. On that screen is a paused image of my bare finger fiddling with the chicken Kiev. My mouth hangs open as the Maître d' explains he recognised me from the last restaurant he worked. He knows my tricks. A vulpine smile curls his lips and bares his teeth. He gives me a choice. Either pay the bill or finish the meal. My wallet is as full as my stomach but that doesn't mean my choice is any clearer. I haven't paid for a meal in over ten years. My watering eyes plead with him but I speak no words. It’s also been ten years since I reduced myself to snivelling. His stern face isn’t dented. I turn to the head chef and the manager. Both wear smiles that have no room for pity. I dry heave as my thumb and forefinger pick up the remains of the hair stuffed chicken. I hold it in front of me like it’s a dead baby rat. In fact it looks exactly like a dead baby rat. I dry heave again. The Maître d' says he doesn’t have time to waste. Either I eat it or I pay. 

The concrete street receives my self shaken mixture of chicken Kiev and red wine with an unforgiving splash. Tears run down my eyes and mingle with the snot that strings out from my nose. I'm across the road from the restaurant. In the window stands the three men pointing and laughing. The patrons sitting behind them stare at me with a mix of horror and amusement; as if I’m some kind of new exotic animal in the zoo. But I don’t care. I wipe my sleeve across my mouth with pride. I'm the real winner today. I still got the meal for free.

A thought for the Texans

The media broke the story two days ago. It hit the front pages like a runaway train. I immediately tried covering up my transgression with more lies. There’s nothing to see here, please move along. An instinctual but foolish move. Like hiding dog’s dirt with dead leaves and broken sticks. It worked for only a few hours. Then the story was verified. Seven years ago I had an affair with another man. A one night fling with a young assistant working on my re-election campaign. Not even one night. Two minutes. Maximum. Less time than it takes to heat a bag of microwavable rice. It was stupid. It was all the adjectives I could think of to describe myself as an idiot. I’d been so wrapped up in my own desires and needs. I’d wanted to feel young again; not bogged down with a husband and two kids. And it worked. I felt young. For a while. What I hadn’t anticipated was the drowning guilt that turned my stomach in on itself. My therapist failed to warn me of this self-repulsion. In fact she’d encouraged me before the affair to do what you feel is best. Christ, she was the real idiot. I left both her and that young man behind all those years ago. Amicably of course. I’m a public official. Working my way out of difficult situations is what I do for a living. Except this time the truth has me locked in its iron jaws. A politician’s worst nightmare.

The words in my husband’s last message pull at the hairs on the back of my neck. We’re done. The shortest text he’s ever sent to me. With the hardest punch. I keep the screen of my phone alive again and again - and again and again. Checking for another text message. It’s white light reaching out to me like a distant lighthouse. I’m hoping the kids will contact me next. Sarah and David. They would surely side with him. I wouldn’t blame them, A fissure of pain cracks down my chest. It paralyses my hand that holds the glass of whiskey. Of their two fathers I was the one who I was around the least. I’m a workaholic - even if I was doing it all for them. I plead with myself for forgiveness. I know it’s pointless but I can’t silence that pathetic voice. Accepting the consequences of my actions is like swallowing a concrete pill.

At first I searched for someone to blame. Anyone but me. Who leaked the story? I can blame everything on them. Was it Moffet (our country’s secret intelligence agency)? It would fit perfectly with current events. I’m the most left leaning politician to have a chance at holding the position of Prime Minister since the founding of our state after WW3. I’ve been living on the political fringes for years. Condemned to late night talks shows that are short on numbers. Referenced in news articles when lunatics are the subject matter. Interviewed on radio shows where the segments were later cut. But the tides recently began to turn. People have seen that peace is the only way. A slower, more painful process than the dropping of a bomb on our so-called enemies. Peace is a process that builds the foundation of a safer future instead of destroying it. My vision has grown popular. A one state solution where people in the LGBT community can live peacefully with the Texans whose land was given to us.

Another sharp pain whips down my chest. If there’s anyone to blame for this political mess it’s me. And the voters. The problem is people’s obsession with leaders who are absolutely pure. We all make mistakes. Some are just better at hiding it. Making mistakes should be applauded. Admitting to mistakes should receive a standing ovation. It’s what makes us better people. As strange as it sounds that affair made me a better person. It made me realise how lucky I was. This was the life raft I clung after I’d buckled up my trousers and the guilt and the shame tried to drown me from the inside. After the heavy cloak of lust had dropped I realised I had a caring husband who looked after not just me but our kids too. He worked his back off to make our home a place where the outside world never intruded. He just never counted on me betraying his trust. I dragged in the rotting corpse of the real world and destroyed our knitted bond from the inside out. Now I’m stuck in limbo. Unsure of where I am. Both physically and mentally. Like the Texan refugees that were forced across the border into Mexico. No longer members of the land they were evicted from and not allowed to integrate into the society they escaped to. 

My phone rings. I answer it before looking at who it is. It’s my assistant. I silently curse every hateful word while telling her I need to go. She stops me. She explains they’ve been trying to get hold of me all day. I tell her I have to go. If my children call I want to answer immediately. She stops me again. She says we need to push- I interrupt her. I’ve never been so rude. She admitted to me years ago - after late night losing drinks following another election - that she knows she can talk a lot. She said she can’t control it. It’s a nervous tick. She said I was the first person who simply let her talk. Who had patience. It’s one of the reasons why she stuck with me for so many years. I tell her she has full authority to take control of all communications. I say I’ll contact her after I’ve spoken to my children. She understands. I hope.

The thought of my opponent's laughter makes me wince. The pain in my chest comes back like the stroke of a match. He’ll be making the most of this news. A former scientist who has the head of a boar without the horns. I recently commented that he sold his horns to science to get the finances to start his campaign. The press loved it. They called him the science pig after that. His snout will be rummaging through the tabloid trough with all of this dirt. Snickering with his pharmaceutical friends. Smoking cigars and clinking glasses of fine whiskey to my demise. He filled the public’s minds with hate for the Texans. He poured a steaming broth of racist rhetoric down their gullets. He lied and told them the Texans were the biggest threat to our safety. He said our society would topple if we returned their land and gave them rights. We would be exterminated like we almost were in WW3. He fails to mention that in order to do this we must become the exterminators. We must eradicate the Texan women and children in the defence of our newly gifted land. He is the real threat to our society. Disguising his military fatigue under an expensive suit and tie.

The Texans were never extreme LGBT proponents but they were also not the one shade of evil that my opponent has coloured them to be. There was a time when we lived together. Not exactly peacefully - but together. If people only read the history books they’d see that no paradise has ever existed. Every society must find a level of coexistence; the least uncomfortable place. Kicking people off their land is never the answer. The problem is that people don’t like hearing the truth when they’ve come to believe a lie (my husband can understand this better than most I’m sure). Like those in our community that we invited to settle here. The truth acts as a stiff finger of embarrassment pointed directly at them. To accept the truth they must first admit that they were foolish enough to believe the lie. When enough fools join together people prefer to stand firm and say the lie is the truth. Then the pain of shame will never need to be experienced. The media are experts at manipulating this. Controlled from the top by invisible puppet strings. Failing to show the LGBT community the hardship of the Texans. The dead who lie covered in dust after our bombs tear apart their buildings. The children who beg for clean water instead of toys. The mothers who have cried so much that they have no more tears left to shed. The young men who are forced to take up arms because we’ve given them no other choice.

The fate of the Texans is now linked to mine. An unfaithful bisexual man. History could never have predicted this irony. If I can survive this public shaming then there is a way they can survive too. Just like them that's all I want; to survive. To get through this with my family. But my fate too rests in other people’s hands. If my children desert me I have nothing left to live for. It’s for them I was fighting all this time. I started on this path of peace not because I love the Texans but because if I didn’t do it now I would leave this job to the next generation. It would become my children’s problem. The lazy man says it will be fine. He lets his mind drift to the utopia that his imagination has constructed instead of getting his hands dirty in the real world. He believes life is always on an upward trajectory. I know because I was that lazy man once before. I escaped into my history books and left the world to its own devices. I was happy with the comforts that padded out the life I led. Free internet. Easy access to food and water. A quiet place to lay my head at night. Affordable electricity. Government subsidies to research and publish essays on the history of the LGBT community. I was so lost in the footsteps of our past that I failed to notice who was leading me forward. I had sacrificed my power to men who fed on it like vampires in the- there’s a knock at the door. I put away the bottle of whiskey and push out of my seat. My heartbeat thumps against my rib cage. The long walk across the cheap carpet of my office floor reminds me of my walk down the aisle. I feel faint. Black splotches sparkle in my eyes. My mouth is barren with fear. I hear a voice outside the door. Is it Sarah? I grip the handle. The metal feels cold against my clammy hand. I twist the knob and pull it open.

COP 29

A mad house run by the mad. That’s where I’m imprisoned. Sentenced to thirteen years detention in COP 29; the 29th Centre for Overdose Protection. Condemned to mix with other poor souls ravaged by addiction - both patients and staff (those in charge of our care are just better at concealing their addiction than we are). I dream of escaping. I hunger for it. But where could I run to if I did? There’s nowhere for me to go. I live under this system like everyone else. There’s no other world to escape to. Except for the one I’ve created in my mind. I manufacture a reality that suits me better. 

I’m the victim of a system that never cared for me. Fully committed to their care for the next thirteen years. My pleas to that decrepit old judge who sentenced me here failed to penetrate the waxy crust that sealed shut his hairy ears. A bribe would have swayed him. It would have shown me to be an upstanding citizen in society. But my bank balance was too low for this furtive trade. I’d just been released from detention for another salt related crime. I was a repeat offender. His failing eyes skimmed over the bullet points of my criminal history that were neatly typed on the sheet his clerk handed to him. He didn’t even need to raise his head and look at me before hammering my future plans with his gavel.

The irony of it all is that I was only caught with a lick of salt (street slang for the standard 3.5 grams). The week before I had almost ten grams in my pocket. A lick is hardly enough to liven up a plate of chips. I bought it from a dealer whose number had been passed to me through the addict grapevine. Meeting him down a dark lane in the middle of a town I’d never been to. The smell of urine stinging my nostrils as I waited interminably. Exchanging pleasantries and goods when he finally arrived before going our separate ways. Walking home and being profiled by a passing police car. The wrong place at the right time. Just because I carried a few extra folds of fat along my waistline the police assumed I was a saltie. They happened to be right. On this occasion. What difference will a measly 3.5 grams make? Last year the press announced the largest haul of salt in Irish history. 2,253 kilograms of salt had been seized in a search of a ship arriving into Dublin. Not even this disrupted my ability to purchase it. Ireland is flooded with salt and yet those in power refuse to admit it. There’s always someone selling. Always. The authorities aren’t even fighting against the tide. They’re fighting their own shadow.

I’m required to attend a three hour group counselling session, twice daily. They call it OIL; Organised Interpersonal Lessons. We sit in a circle of ten listening to each other's story about our drug of choice. I thought I was a fool for getting caught with a lick of salt but then I heard from those that have been committed here by their families. Fred - a psychiatric case - who was left at the doorstep of the centre by his father’s assistant for biting his fingernails too much. Markie - the casual drinker - who twirled her hair whenever she was nervous. She woke up in the room next to mine after being drugged by her mother’s new boyfriend. She’d been sexually assaulted at least three times before regaining consciousness. I’d only heard three before falling back to sleep. There could have been more. And then there’s Fatima - who self medicated with heroin - she’d been transferred here from a prison in Dublin after she’d slept with the right guards. She was now the group’s informal educator on how to get what you want by using sex. It’s interesting to watch her push her students off the innocent precipice on which they’d clung to all their lives. Reduced to performing oral sex on other addicts in a bathroom stall for nothing more than a chocolate bar. I even bargained down to a half eaten chocolate bar once. 

I listen to all their stories with a maximum effort of half interest. My enormous body remains seated on the squeaking plastic chair while my mind escapes on a magic carpet ride through my imagination. Taking me back to the past or to possible futures. Remembering the time I stole a client’s wallet and ran out of the hotel room while he was in the shower. How I’d eaten like a king for that week. No restaurant was out of my budgetary reach. No dessert was too expensive. No delicacy was too absurd. Drowning in a sea of sauces. I guzzled and gobbled every last cent that man had kept in his bulging wad. A wallet he’d hardly have missed when he returned home to his wife that night. When I’ve run out of memories to revisit I think of the future. My tongue electrifies at the imagined feel of a greasy cheeseburger in my mouth. The prickly tingle of the gherkins. The soft juices of the tomato. The crunch of the lettuce as it finds itself locked between my hungry molars. I’ve been diagnosed with uncontrollable mastication by the staff. I find it’s triggered when thinking of anywhere but the present. It happens regularly. An elbow in my ribs usually captures my escaping mind and brings my swinging jaw to a sudden halt. It forces me to contribute to the group conversation. I make up lies about how I was mistreated by the family who raised me. I contradict the stories I told in previous sessions. No one notices. No one ever listens. The speaker's voice is simply meant to fill the uncomfortable silence as we all methodically nod along.

Staff and patients alike are stuck behind the walls of this former monastery. The milky broth they serve at every meal is no better now than it was for the monks. This is a place that was left derelict after religion was finally eradicated; the great fiction of our imagination. No one was prepared for what would be built in religion’s absence. Into the vacuum flowed the same power hungry people but with different masks obscuring their intentions. Now the same system of control exists but under a different name. In my forty eight years on this planet I’ve seen how power shifts through different seasons just like fashion. They flow from one to the other with intermittent periods overlapping and intertwining. What was in before was religion. Then capitalism. And now this. Whatever name future historians will give to it.

Some of the staff in COP 29 are drug addicts who’ve been here for so long that they were eventually given jobs. Even the president is a former drug addict. Power folds down from his position like the links of his solid gold watch. I’ve heard rumours from the women and the effeminate men in here that the president is much like his staff. He’ll exchange drugs for the right favours. But these are just rumours. Whispers from prisoners whose minds are dulled by monotony, searching for any bit of excitement, real or imagined. Alas, I’m not effeminate. So I cannot test the truth of these rumours. Otherwise I would gladly do as I was asked for a lick of salt. Or some green bud. Or a bottle of stout. Or a line of dandruff. Preferably after I’ve performed the required service, not before.

From the small window in my cell I’ve seen him passing in the corridors late at night. Neatly dressed. A cleanly shaven face and head. A sharp look in his blue eyes that could be the result of the right eye drops - or he really is completely sober. My port hole sized window allows me to glimpse him just for a second as his polished shoes clip-clop down the equally polished hall. My nose pressed against the glass. Jets of steam shooting against the wire-enforced window. I must look like a caged pig to him. A farmyard animal who’s absent of a soul and independent thought. I hear his footfall stop. An overpowering silence filled by my heartbeat drumming in my ears. Then the sound of a cell door opening. A pause. And then the door closes. These are his one-to-one sessions. I’ve yet to experience them. It’s when he imparts the lessons he learned from his drug using days. He uses his position as both a former addict and a person in power to lasso those addicts who have been lost and pull them back to society. I’ve often wondered what his drug of choice was. Dandruff perhaps? Or maybe salt? He cuts a fine figure now which suggests if he was a saltie he’s rid himself of its delicious grip. Whatever about his past I recognise one of his addictions now. It’s not a drug that can be orally consumed. It’s entirely manufactured in the mind. Power. A drug like no other. A drug that money can sometimes buy but never guarantee. Power transcends time and space. It seals your place in the history books. He has no need to be reduced to the necessity of producing offspring to create the impression that we will somehow live on after our death. This man has exceeded this basic choice. He’s used power to pole vault himself up for something much grander. From all accounts he has succeeded. My life is irrelevant compared to this man at the top of the pyramid. Who will history remember? The president of COP 29? Or a drug addict who spent more time inside than outside? A betting man would place his chips on the former. As would I. 

Borders

She’s tall. She’s gorgeous. She’s Russian. And I think she knows I’m lying. This is the closest I’ve found myself to love in forty years on this planet. My father would castrate me for falling in love with a Russian - if he was still alive. The psycho even tried to cut off my face when I was a boy. I can’t remember what I did wrong to deserve this punishment. All I remember is the knife cutting into my cheek. Not with a sharp sense of pain but with a cold realisation. I understood then that I’m nothing more than flesh. I am simply meat on bones. The idea of a soul is the greatest trick our imagination has ever pulled. The scar down the left side of my cheek reminds me of this every day.

She’s letting me stay in her apartment just outside Dublin’s city centre. A gesture that’s not quite romantic and not quite charitable. Somewhere in between. The grey area of life where I’ve always operated. Perhaps that’s why she has thrown me off my game. She doesn’t know where she is and neither do I. The fog of war has followed me from Velykyi Dal'nyk; a small pastoral town just outside Odessa. I’d been hiding in the house of a married woman for almost three months before her husband returned from the frontline. The bright light of this homecoming hero banished my dark arts. If I hadn’t wasted almost five thousand euros on a fake medical cert to exempt me from military service I would have chosen a different way to leave Ukraine. As it was, I had no other choice. My feet carried me through the acres of farmland and miles of boggy marsh, across the imaginary line that marked my entry into Moldova. From there I continued my slow escape to Romania, constantly evading agents of my own government sent to catch those dodging their patriotic duty. What duty did I owe a country delineated by imaginary lines? Lines that had been drawn by forgotten men who never visited the lands their lines ran through. They drew their pens across a map as if they were moving a pawn across a chess board. I was raised to take care of myself, not my country. Ukrainian, Russian, Belarusian, what does it matter? The air in my lungs is just the same in any of these places.

A stowaway seat on a train took me from Brasov in Romania to Vienna in Austria. It didn’t take the ticket collector long to find me. He was close to throwing me off in Szolnok in Hungary until I showed him my Ukrainian passport. The sorrowful look in my eyes rescued me from a harsh landing in the middle of nowhere. Pity can be as powerful as love when used correctly. I may not agree with the borders that scar our lands but I’ll make use of my nationality when it’s beneficial. 

My fake asylum application began in Austria. A ploy so that I could obtain some capital. Even with three countries and over a thousand kilometres between me and Odessa I still felt the hot breath of conscription breathing down my neck. I used those Austrian euros to book a flight to Dublin, Ireland. From my seat on the plane the waves of the Irish Sea looked no different to those of the Black Sea. I felt an uneasy familiarity in watching the battle of those white peaks and dark troughs. The bloody history of human conflict would look much the same as the sea if watched from further up above. 

I made only one friend apart from her in my six months here; a drinking friend. I slept in the government assigned hotel room above the bar that he called his local. He was a street performer who worked on Grafton Street. He may still work there. He’s an English man who forgot how he ended up in Dublin. He acts as a living statue from nine to six every day, Monday to Friday. His nights are spent drowning the memory of how he spent his days before repeating it all over again. I’ve lost touch with him now that I don’t live in that hotel room anymore. All I have is his wallet to remember him by.

It was in this village - that the Irish call a capital city - where I met her. She’d left her hometown of Kursk in Russia, close to the Ukrainian border, almost fifteen years ago. Her first stop out of Russia was Brussels, Belgium. The father she never saw again paid a heavy price to have her study law there. Her specialties in working with multi-nationals led her to Ireland. Her Russian accent has faded over the years but it still remains. An anchor to a past which refuses to be taken up.

She wasn’t surprised to meet me that day in Dublin. Her eyes held steady as her black hair flittered against her pale cheeks in the sea breeze. I knew she was Russian before I approached her. It was the way she held herself. I asked for directions to The Well; a profitable bar with poor security that I heard was looking for a kitchen porter. She recognised my accent and asked me where I was from. Our conversation took us from the street to a coffee shop and then to her place. Purely as friends. We still are. I’m too afraid to try for more. I left my government assigned hotel room above the bar and moved my things to her place. I carried with me the same bag I’d brought from Ukraine. I walked in the same shoes. She took me shopping the next day to change this. My attire from another life was buried in the bins beneath her apartment building. 

It was about this time my nightmares started. The haunting of my mind from people I’d left behind. My older brother who volunteered as soon as Russia invaded. He’d hopped on the military wagon that had rolled into town and disappeared with the other men of our village. I hid in my room while my mother held back my younger brother with questions about who would look after his wife and daughter. The next day the town was a quarter less full and three quarters more quiet. I stayed hidden in my room. Only daring to go out at night when no one would see me.

We never heard from my older brother again. His life’s purpose had been diverted to opposing Russia. A brief flicker of national pride that had burnt out as quickly as it had taken flame. My younger brother left without telling anyone. It was a letter from a military doctor over six weeks later that confirmed to us where he’d gone. He’d been injured by an infantry mine of our own making. He’d lost more than half his left leg and all of his left arm. He was lucky to be alive. So we were told. He was being sent back to us for care. I escaped before he arrived. My mother, his wife and his young daughter are condemned to be his carers for the rest of his life. 

She never asks me questions about why I scream at night. Maybe she thinks I spent time on the frontline. If that’s true I don’t want to alter that image. My time with her will be brief. I cannot keep this charade up for much longer and I cannot bring myself to tell her the truth. Her eyes have come to wear the cloak of suspicion on recent occasions. I would love to know what image of me she has crafted in her mind but she is harder to read than Joyce. Does she understand that the weave of my personality is interlaced with lies? Or has she refused to look at that which might offend her? I know how comforting a lie can be and how bitter the truth always is. It’s how I cut my craft in Ukraine. Skimming what I could from the small fortunes of elderly women in my town and those living close by. Giving those women what they wanted while their husbands slept in graves or with other women. I’d made a comfortable life for myself before the war had started. Before other men’s thirst for power intruded in on my life and consumed all of those around me. Adults and their machines. It’s no different than children and their toys. I’ve seen how power infects all who consume it. I saw it with my older brother when we were children. I saw it with my father and his knife. I saw it with my younger brother and his wife. I saw it with my mother and her dogs. They think they have so much power. They think they have the right to wield it. None of them ever ask if they should. Not those in democracies and certainly not those in dictatorships. 

The memory of her will stay with me longer than I want it to. I know this already. She has been the first to glimpse who I really am; to crack the walls I’ve built around my truth. My next destination is unspoken. I fight myself daily from telling her where I’ll go. I must act fast before my feet refuse to walk. If borders haven’t stopped those in power, they will not stop me. 

Tomo

‘I forgive you, you know that?’ The words oozed out of Tomo's mouth like the last bit of toothpaste being forced from a crumpled tube. His words stopped me from chewing the inside of my cheek. It was a bad habit I’d picked up when going through withdrawals. 

‘Thanks Tomo.’ I said. ‘Thank you. I don’t know how you can forgive me. If I could go back in time I would.’

At fifty-three years old there wasn’t much of a future left for an addict like Tomo. He’d already defied the odds by reaching this age. What was his life expectancy after the self-inflicted trauma his body had endured? His ears were turning in on themselves like a wilting plant. Red sores tore through his stretched skin like patches of wildfire. The grizzle on his face was the same grey as the few remaining hairs on his peeling scalp. His body had become the ashy remains of youthful potential. He flashed me a toothless grin when his googly eyes managed to focus on me. ‘Here, do you remember that time we robbed that granny down by the sea front?’

He was talking about the time we’d gotten off the train at Blackrock; a pristine village that was located far from the crumbling infrastructure that scarred our own local

area. You could instinctively sense Blackrock was one of the wealthiest areas in Dublin just by standing in the street. There were no bits of rubbish rustling in the wind. There was no shouting or yelling from young kids fighting. There were no blasts of sirens or alarms. Money afforded the people who lived here a peace that neither Tomo nor I had ever known growing up. We'd been raised by the frightful energy of poverty. It never lets you rest.

The hum of the train had rattled our bones as it left the station that day. It was a quiet morning so I assumed it was a Sunday. We’d shared the same needle on the train after

sleeping rough in Bray. We’d been on our way into the city centre to start scrounging off anyone who’d throw us a few quid. I’m not sure what drove us off the warmth of the train early and into that cold morning's air. What seemed like a great idea when you were out of it can be easily re-evaluated when you’re sober. 

Tomo's shoulders were leaning so far back that he had to stretch out his arms so he wouldn’t fall down. We staggered out of the train station like a pair of zombies. Our 

legs carried us up the road and over the narrow pedestrian bridge to the seafront. We descended the stairs to the sea-wall like slinkies in slow motion. The tide was going out; repelled by our presence. I remember glancing at Tomo's face and regretting it. He had two gloopy balls of saliva accumulating on either corner of his mouth. They looked like a pair of baby maggots. 

The hunger hit me first. My stomach snarled in anger at having gone so long without food. Tomo felt the same because I told him. The only problem was that we had no 

money. Not even a lint covered one cent coin lined the bottom of our pockets. We scoured the ground looking for some lost treasure, craning our necks over our skeletal bodies like crows searching for worms. Only puddles from the retreating sea were left on the concrete sea-wall. We needed cash. Cold hard cash. We made our way over to the dilapidated baths and hatched a plan. Two of Dublin’s most experienced criminals masterminding another great robbery in their makeshift lair. The peeling white paint of the long abandoned baths exposed the grey concrete underneath. It reminded me of the marks on Tomo’s body where he’d shot up too many times. 

We found a place to rest our bony bottoms on a large block of concrete that was slowly being devoured by sand. We cast our eyes over the few people that were walking 

along the seafront. Young couples with their dogs, a father and his little girl trying to fly a kite, and best of all, an elderly woman walking alone. Her slow footsteps in the sand told us of the strength she lacked. I looked at Tomo and nodded. We made our way back to the foot of the pedestrian bridge; two vultures waiting for their meal. I watched as the old woman glanced at us before quickly looking away. These stairs were the only way back to the safety of the village. She had no choice but to wander into our trap. She’d grown too comfortable in her wealthy surroundings. She’d probably lived here all her life, protected from the reality of how harsh life could be. She hadn’t observed the signs of danger that would have been so obvious to people from our childhood area; a relatively isolated place with only one way in or out. It was to our benefit she hadn’t correctly assessed her weaknesses. 

The excitement of a mugging always jolted me awake. I had to elbow Tomo in the ribs to stop him from swaying. I nodded towards the old woman and directed him to 

concentrate. She continued on her slow march. One plodding step followed by another. Was she trying to buy herself time? She was about twenty metres away from us now, shuffling up the steps from the sand and onto the concrete sea wall. Her hands were tucked into her pockets, trying to retreat into the shell of her rain jacket. Her head was bowed as she passed between me and Tomo, pretending as if we weren’t there. Her foot was on the first step of the stairs when we pounced. Tomo locked his arms around her from behind and pincered her like a crab. I dug my hands into her pockets fishing out anything I could find. I heard her mumble something, a plea of some kind. I barked at her in return and told her to keep her mouth shut. The fear gripped her entirely. It was funny being in control of someone else’s fight or flight response. I wished I’d had more time to study her. But time was something two addicts never had. 

In her trouser pocket I found what I was looking for; a bright pink purse bulging at the seams with what I thought were notes. I nodded to Tomo and we were off. He let 

her tumble to the ground as we forced our rubbery legs up the stairs. The thrill of the mugging had flooded my veins with adrenaline and purged my body of the junk. We’d need to shoot up again soon. What a waste of a buzz. If only we’d planned it better. We should have gotten more money first and then shot up. Foresight was the first victim to the immediacy of addiction.

Before we’d reached the top of the stairs a group of teenagers appeared in front of us. Not just any teenagers. These were the physical forms of grown men squeezed into the bodies of boys. Muscles protruded from every awkward angle of their youthful bodies. Their growing necks were stuck between the muscular clamps of their shoulders and their enormous biceps swung from side to side in a show of false confidence. At the end of each arm they held a hipster coffee cup and a vape of some kind. They needed something to keep their nervous hands busy. These were the typical figures that were raised in this affluent area. Boys who spent their triple figure pocket money to pay for expensive gym memberships. All to do a form of manual labour that people from my area considered a day job. 

It was the scream from the elderly woman that stopped us. The boys - those young men - looked down on us. We were a pack of hyenas to this pride of lion cubs. Our mangy grey charity shop tracksuits were at odds with their Tommy Hilfigure t-shirts and skinny jeans. The old woman’s purse was still in my hand. Its bright colour was a flashing beacon that signalled our crime. The slight re-adjustment of their stance told me there were going to be problems. The only advantage me and Tomo had were our voices. These toffs weren’t used to hearing our accents. The accent of the working man. Not that me or Tomo had ever really worked. 

It was me who shouted first. Then Tomo joined in. The boys - those giants - took a step back. Our accents scared them. Anything foreign in a safe, rich bubble is instinctively treated with fear. We continued walking up the stairs - faster now - pumping as much fuel as we could into our playdoh-like muscles. One of the boys was brave. He stepped forward and stood his ground. I needed another element of fear. I dug into my pocket and produced the needle we’d shared on the train. The same needle we’d share again soon. I swished it from side to side like a sword. The boys - those Celtic demigods - scattered. 

We escaped into the nearby park and hid ourselves in one of the many bushes that obscured its edges. The earth was damp and cold. It squelched under our light footsteps. I felt the water seep in through the torn soles of my runners. We tried to make a bed of leaves but it did nothing to stop the damp from penetrating my tracksuit bottoms and stiffening the thin muscles in my buttocks. I looked at Tomo and was horrified by his hollowed out eyes and caved in cheeks. His black hair was matted to his head from the dripping of last night's rain through the bush. His shoulders shook so rapidly it was almost indiscernible. Only the clattering of his jaw gave it away. We were stuck in that bush with as much choice as we were stuck in the bear trap of addiction. I knew they’d be looking for us. The authorities in an area like this relished any action that came their way. Their days were usually spent passing time in the station’s canteen flicking tea bags into the bin and seeing who could get the most in. We were the quarry that they hungered for. It was our fear of being arrested and our gear being confiscated that kept us there all day and all night. Shooting up and blacking out. Staying as close to each other as we could to preserve our heat and brushing off the earwigs that crawled up our backs.

‘I remember that day alright.’ I said to Tomo, forcing a smile across my face.

‘How much did we get that time?’ 

‘It must have been about three euros I’d say.’

‘What a waste.’ 

‘The size of the wallet though, I thought we’d won the lotto.’

‘So did I until we opened it up. What is in there again? Nothing but receipts, wasn’t it?’

‘I still don’t understand why old people love keeping receipts.’

‘What do you mean old people? We’re the old people now.’

His chin had descended to his chest. The bald patch that crowned the top of his head shone back at me. I raised my hand to a similar patch on my own head. We’d never had a youth to speak of. We’d grown from thirteen to fifty-three with nothing in between. We never had a chance. Our potential had been aborted long before the push of a needle.

‘I’m sorry Tomo.’ 

He gurgled a response as he folded up into himself. I got up from the kitchen chair and laid him down on the couch lengthways and put a cushion under his head. A line of drool was already dripping from the corner of his cracked lips. I thought about wiping it off but the sound of the front door opening snapped me stiff. Carol was home. I began wringing my hands over how I should present myself; should I be sitting or standing? Should I even be here? What should I say?

Her face poked through the door of the small kitchen-cum-sitting room. Her eyes left me and drifted to Tomo. She pulled her head back out and left the door open. It was a sign that she wanted to talk to me in the hallway. I felt like a school boy being taken out of class by the principal and yet this woman was twenty years my junior. 

‘Decided to pay us a visit so?’ Her arms were folded. The jingling of her keys went in time with the tapping of her foot. She looked so much like Tomo. A healthier version. 

‘I’ve been meaning to come sooner, it’s just I had to find a place to stay first. You know how hard it is in Dublin.’

‘You’ve found a place then?’

‘I did yeah. I’m sharing a room with two lads from the clinic up in Artane.’

‘You’re not meant to share with ex-junkies I heard.’

That word cut into me. She never called her Dad a junkie.

‘Yeah, well it’s hard you know. The only other place I could sleep is the streets. At least now I’ve a bed.’ I started chewing the inside of my cheek again. I’d torn my mouth to shreds since I’d quit the gear; eating myself from the inside out. Not that I had many teeth left to do the chewing with.

‘How longs it been so? Since you quit I mean.’ She said, stepping out of her heels. It must have been a long day wearing those on the shop floor.

‘About a year now. Give or take.’

‘You've stopped counting?’ 

‘I lost count after I left the second clinic.’

‘Good for you. Not counting how long you’ve been clean is a good sign.’

‘Thanks.’

I couldn’t tell if she was lying. She couldn’t be happy for me. I wasn’t even happy for me. Not while I was in this house. 

‘You know, my Da’s never blamed you. Not once. I thought he was just pretending at first. I thought he didn’t want to show me how bitter he really was. But you know what?’

‘What?’

‘It’s not him that's bitter. It’s me. I had my Da back, you know? I had the man I loved back in my life and you robbed him from me. You dragged him back down to your level and then you stepped on him when you crawled out.’

‘I know. You’re right. I’m sorry, I really am. I’m trying to make amends.’

‘There’s no amends to make. You can’t make amends for something like that. A drug addict like him only has a year or two left, maybe even months. There’s nothing either of us can do now.’

I looked to the floor and focused on the pattern of the wood, trying to think of a way that I could disappear within it. Trying to think of a way I could go back in time and take back what I did.

‘Why did you do it? Why?’ Her voice wasn’t angry anymore, it was desperate.

‘I don’t know.’

‘You must know.’

‘I didn’t… I…’ The words didn’t want to come out. My tongue refused to tell the truth.

‘Say it. Say it now.’

‘I was… I was alone. I was by myself. I wanted someone there with me. I was sick of being a junkie with no friends.’

‘So you drugged him just to have someone there with you?’

‘I wasn't thinking properly. It wasn’t me, you know? It was this other… This other… I don’t know what you’d call it. I was this other thing. It wasn’t me.’

‘No, it wasn’t another thing. It was you. It’s who you are. The drugs were only an excuse.’

I kept my eyes to the floor. I wondered if she was staring at my bald patch and feeling the same pity I’d felt when looking at her Dad.

‘You need to leave.’ She said.

‘I can come back if you want?’

‘What for? He won’t remember.’

‘I… I can help.’

‘With what? He does his own thing. He only stays here to sleep. He won’t even eat.’

‘I could…’

‘Just go.’

I squeezed past her through the narrow hallway and out the front door. I kept my eyes to the ground at all times. 

‘Go back to your life now.’ I heard her call. ‘Forget about us, yeah? You only cared about one thing when you were a junkie and nothing’s changed now.’

I was ashamed to feel relief when I heard the door slam shut. I pulled my hood up over my face, partly to protect myself from the cold but mainly in case people recognised me. I tasted blood in my mouth from chewing the inside of my cheek so much. 

What was the point of being clean when your life was still a mess? I remembered how drugs had been a way to manage my life initially. It was a way of loosening the tight belt of stress that was my youth. No one told me then that when you took a break from life you just delayed having to deal with your problems. You never actually managed anything. I only learned that after I was addicted. After it was too late. Maybe it was even too late to quit now? Fifty three years of problems to deal with was a mountain to scale. I prayed to whoever was listening that when I died I wouldn’t be sent to hell. I wanted to be sent back in time instead.

Nightrise

I had a secret that nobody knew. Something I’d never told anyone before. I realised from a young age that I was unique, that I could do something no one else could. The truth is, I’ve never had the need to sleep. I don’t suffer because of this. I'm not a victim of insomnia. I’m not robbed of energy and left to shoulder the weight of depression. No, unlike insomniacs I thrive without sleep. I’m not sure at what age this began but I do remember spending long nights as a child staring at the clouds in the night sky and wondering if I was the only one. My parents never knew about my sleepless nights and I enjoyed keeping this secret from them. It gave me a sense of power. I would close my eyes and pretend to be asleep, letting them gently close my bedroom door to go off and snore the night away. I came to see them as “part-timers”; those who only half live their lives. Their red eyes told of a losing battle against sleep. They grew dark bags under their eyes while I remained pure. They relied on caffeine while I abhorred its smell. 

For so long I wondered about who I was. I turned to the local library for answers and sacked their shelves for any book that might have had the slightest clue. I tore through the pages of books such as Sleep Thieves: An Eye-Opening Exploration into the Science & Mysteries of Sleep and The Promise of Sleep: A Pioneer in Sleep Medicine Explores the Vital Connection Between Health, Happiness, and a Good Night's Sleep. Their titles were as long as the time I spent failing to find answers. I was left with a question for a question that tormented my mind; was I alone? Ireland in the mid 1990s was still a crumb of a country trying to get into the breadbasket of Europe. Even as a young girl I recognised this. I knew the sample size amongst which I lived was miniscule compared to the millions that lived on the continent across the sea. If I wanted answers I had to escape this rock.

As I left the innocence of childhood behind and grew into the uncertainty of puberty I was no longer content with passing the night between pages of books that held nothing for me. I grew more adventurous. I began to leave my house. I explored the deserted streets of Dublin’s suburbs. I bathed in the orange glow of the street lights. I stalked the foxes as they stalked their prey. I trapped the cats that were still awake. I followed the drunken strangers that stumbled home from lock-ins. I hid in bushes from the headlights of cars. I enjoyed the feel of a blade in my hand.

Dublin was on the cusp of a new millennium but it was as dull a place at night as it was during the day. I hungered for something more. I looked to the bright lights of Europe. At eighteen I said goodbye forever to my parents who’d never really understood me. I landed in the concrete jungle of Berlin and waited for the sun to set. I followed the shouts and yelps from night goers like me. I descended into old World War II bunkers where generals had fought for uniformity but where party goers now celebrated diversity. I passed through the halls of disused power plants that pumped out music instead of energy. I wandered around abandoned buildings and department stores that were lit with strobe lights instead of fluorescent bulbs. I mingled with people whose faces were covered in piercings and tattoos. I learned to speak their language; not just German but the words they used when talking about artists such as DJ Hell or Jeff Mills. I was welcomed for my individuality of not taking drugs or indulging in alcohol. I lied and told them that I was there to enjoy the music. I soaked up their knowledge and experience of the night. I roamed from underground clubs to early morning bars. When I found no answers there I branched out from these party goers and dipped my toes in the dungeons that fed the repressed desires of many. I swam in the hedonistic fetish parties that these dark holes were home to. I gorged on the experiences that few ever knew of. But all I found were pair after pair of dull grey eyes fighting the power of sleep. I never once caught the eye of someone like me. 

I departed Berlin after two years on a late night train to Paris. I arrived with a hopeless need rather than the youthful energy I’d brought to Berlin. I spent six months learning to speak French and developing the mannerisms of the Parisiennes. I even learned the sister languages of Spanish and Italian. I left the old masks I’d crafted in Germany and Ireland far behind. I became a new being once again. I rented a flat in the beautiful but dangerous Barbès-Rochechouart in the heart of the 18th arrondissement. The fine architecture did a poor job of hiding the poverty of the area. The stoned faced gargoyles that sat atop the roofs were on the ground in human form too. At night I saw them when I walked the streets with a butterfly knife tucked into my sleeve. I observed from the shadows the fights that would break out. I listened to the screams from other women as they were caught in the web of dangerous men and dragged away in screeching cars. I observed it all and felt unsatisfied. Until, at the moment I’d just about given up, I found her.

I was standing on the corner of Rue Pierre l'Ermite, opposite the wide arches of the church of Saint-Bernard de la Chapelle, when I saw her. Her eyes shone in the night like a pair of polished stones glistening in the sun. Her mind wasn’t clouded with narcotics or alcohol like those that surrounded her. She was simply awake. I recognized that look. Her eyes had never known sleep and her mind had never known dreams. She held my stare as she spoke to a group of young men. She handed two of them a roll of notes. They took off their shirts and jewellery and began to fight. I watched her as she watched them. They snarled and snapped, pacing around in circles, gauging the strength of one another. A flurry of fists broke out like the flapping of a pigeon's wings. Their fight lasted less than a minute. A disappointment to the woman whose eyes had barely blinked twice. She paid the winner more money and left in a car that was waiting for her. I raced over to the fighters and asked them where she was going.

‘Où va la femme?’ I shouted.

They barked and spat at me in response. I should have known better than to look for help from part-timers. I chased the sound of the car that echoed off the dark and silent buildings. My shoes slapped the concrete paths with an unforgiving pain that shot up to my knees. I spent every morsel of energy I had until I caught sight of its red tail lights. It was stopped at the lights of an intersection leading down to the Seine. I reached the passenger window just as the lights turned green. There the woman sat with an unblinking stare. The car drove off as I banged on the window. I had only enough time to see her mouth the word “Rome”. It could have been “home” either or “comb” or any other number of variations. But I knew it had to be Rome. I felt it.

I left Paris on a train that night with only the clothes on my back. I reached Geneva in the early hours of the morning with the sun peeking up over the Alps and bouncing its first rays off the city’s lake. The next train took me to Milan. I arrived at platform 14 and was the first to dash off the train. My eyes scorched over the nearest timetable and I saw that platform 19 was where I needed to be. I didn’t have time to leave the beautifully decorated ceilings and arches of the station. My feet had barely hopped from the platform onto the next train when the doors snapped closed. I spent the final hours of my fifteen hour cross country journey hiding from the ticket collector. The setting sun welcomed me to Roma Termini, gracefully leaving behind traces of its heat. 

I shifted in the suit dress I was wearing, taking off my jacket and flinging it over my shoulder. My blouse was damp with sweat and my entire body itched for a cold shower. I wandered down to the Collosuem, observing through my sunglasses the last rays of light piercing through its gaping arches. The smell of cigars and perfume drifted through the evening air. The few people  who were around were strolling towards the bars and restaurants where I knew they’d eat and drink themselves to sleep. I felt the cold creeping sensation of being lost. Why had I been in such a rush to get here? The stress of travelling at such speed had crashed into the wall of reality. What was I to do now? 

I stepped out of my tight shoes and walked across the smooth stone slabs where so many other feet had passed. Generations - millennia - of human soles had traversed these once rough stones, wearing them down to their polished surface. Who of those had been the gladiators? Who of those had been the slaves? And how many of those feet belonged to people like me and the woman I was searching for?

‘Signora? Signora?’ The musical lilt of an Italian voice called to me. I turned to see a small bronze-skinned man staring up at me with tired eyes. His sweating face told me that he’d been running. He’d probably been chasing me from the train station.

‘Si. Vuoi qualcosa?’ I asked.

‘Si, si, si.’ He waved at me, asking me to follow him. I slipped my shoes back on and walked behind him as he jogged ahead. He led me north, dashing across beeping cars and down side alleys. Volleys of insults and hand gestures were thrown at us as we bumped and pushed our way forward. We finally arrived at a small bar on the opposite river bank of the pale bricked Castel Sant'Angelo, lit up by the spotlights that surrounded it. The man climbed up on a shakey stool and stared at me until I realised he was waiting for me to order him a drink. I kept mine to a sparkling water while his was an enormous glass filled to the brim with red wine. He cradled it in both his small hands like a priest with a chalice. I knew then that we’d rushed here for his need of alcohol and nothing else. After his second gulp he began his story. He told me, as far as I could understand, of the woman I was looking for. He told me to be careful. He warned me that she was not a pleasant person. I entertained his warnings. He was nothing more than a part-timer, what did he know? I recognised the familiar bags under his eyes and the sag in his shoulders. Like so many others he was desperate for sleep but continued to protest against it.

‘Dove posso trovarla?’ I asked, wanting to know where I could find her.

He told me that she would find me when she wants. 

‘È lei a Roma?’ I pressed, wanting to get to the heart of the matter. Was the woman in Rome or not? 

‘No. Napoli.’

I was furious. Why was she dragging me around on this wild goose chase? I stood up from the table, almost knocking the man off his stool. Although my Italian was poor I could see that the vile insults I spewed out were understood by this mysterious messenger. I told him to pass along the message that I was not the type of person who followed. I stormed out of the bar and kept to the pathway along the Tiber. The warm night air was slow to cool my anger. I walked for hours, following the meandering river all the way to the Mediterranean. I’d come here in search of answers and yet I’d thrown away my only chance just now. It was this damned heat and that tortuous train journey; squashed into a tiny metal box with all those part-timers, watching them doze off into that mysterious land of dreams. I’d been repulsed by the pungent smell that rose from their bodies. I’d been filled with disgust as I watched them drool on each other’s shoulders like infants. This inferior race of humans - these neanderthals - were below me. I was the next step in the evolution of the human race. This woman and me.

The next afternoon I left Rome. I arrived at Stazione di Napoli Centrale three hours late after there was an accident on the tracks. The platform was packed with desperate people trying to leave Naples but we were the last train in or out. Their sweating bodies pressed against me as I tried to exit the train. I felt as if I was becoming infected by the spit that flew from their mouths.

‘Spostatevi a sinistra, stupidi.’ I shouted. It surprisingly worked and I squeezed out of the mass, holding a handkerchief to my face as I pushed through the compressed bodies and exited the station into the heat of the day. There, across the road, the same small man I’d met in Rome stood waiting for me. He was smoking furiously on a cigarillo. I stormed across to him through the traffic and raised my hand to slap him across his fleshy cheek. He held up his hands and pleaded for me to stop. 

‘Why should I?’ I shouted in Italian, saying that he’d been playing me for a fool. He explained that this was the first time he’d met me. He said I must be confusing him with his cousin who lives in Rome. I realised then that this man had a dark shadow of a moustache growing under a bush of protruding nose hairs. It couldn’t have been the same clean shaven man who’d spoken to me in Rome only a few hours ago. I refused to apologise, however, simply lowering my arm and glaring at him.

‘Signora, in questa direzione.’ He motioned for me to get into a waiting taxi. Its chugging fumes clouded us as we climbed in and moved off. Some indiscernible directions were shouted to the driver over the loud 80s Italian pop music coming from the broken radio. I sat back and ordered the air conditioning to be turned on full. To my disappointment, the sweaty interior was as cool as it could be.

We pressed through the traffic slowly, bumper to bumper with every other beeping car. The whole of Italy seemed to be squashed into Naples at that very moment. Every tourist too. I observed their cameras dangling around their pale and sun burnt necks as they struggled to stay together with their tour groups on the crowded pathways. It took us over two hours to break through the dense traffic. I was continually checking my watch wondering when we would arrive at wherever we were going. When we took a road leading upwards I understood where our destination would be before I even saw the sign for it; Vesuvio.

The sun was edging towards the waters of the Mediterranean, casting an orange glow over Naples by the time our taxi crawled the last few metres to the top. Its engine had been coughing all the way, struggling with each metre gained. I’d been afraid that we'd plunge uncontrollably back down the hill but the driver never had a trace of fear on his face. The small messenger and I got out and walked the rest of the way. The guard at the gate waved us through when he saw us, not bothering to rise up from his slouching position on his seat. I was covered in the brown and orange dust right up to the hem of my skirt by the time I reached the top. I paused to massage my throbbing feet and looked back to see the small messenger far below me, puffing on another cigarillo. When fixing my eyes on the opposite side of the caldera, I saw who I’d come here for. There she sat on a bench looking out at the city below. I hiked onwards over the rocky terrain, kicking up more dust and stones in my haste. I arrived in a sweat just as the last of the orange sun was settling down for the night and those familiar city lights began to spring on.

 Both of us looked out while I tried to untangle the knots in my sweat-soaked hair. It was a beautiful sight to behold despite my physical discomfort. I turned to speak but she held a finger to her lips. The moment couldn’t be disturbed. Only the muffled cries from the man who was bound and gagged, lying on the trail beside us, disturbed the silence. I placed a hand on her shoulder and leaned my head down. Answers would come in time. Change was upon the city below. Their way of life was coming to an end. 

Playground

The smell of damp wood chippings filled the air. Its scent was so strong it broke through the thick bramble of nasal hair poking down over my upper lip. At this age it was hard to sense anything except pain. I was resting like always on the wrought iron bench just outside the empty waste land of rusted metal that used to be a playground. My walking stick made a clunking sound against the metal bench, disturbing the chirping of birds in the trees. It was late summer in Ballycrone and the dark clouds of autumn were on the horizon. Leaves clung to their branches as tight as they could in the light breeze, their former friends lay on the ground already decayed to a dark orange and brown.

‘We had good times here.’ My friend said, as he plopped down on the bench beside me. His old hound Banshee hung at the end of its leash like a wet pillow. She was missing as many fangs as my friend's teeth and both of them had droopy eyes that begged for an end that was long in coming. A pong of stale urine came from one of them, pulling at my nose hairs. I was used to it by now.

‘Yah.’ I said. I didn’t like talking to him. If there was anyone else around here I’d talk to them. But there was no one of substance left in Ballycrone. Everyone smart had left; only fools had stayed.

‘I remember pushing my son on that swing. When there was one there.’ His crooked finger, covered in a moss of grey hair, pointed to where a seat used to hang at the end of two dangling chains. Every day he did this. He never remembered that he didn’t have a son. He’d gotten confused with the memories I’d shared with him about pushing my own son on that swing. I’d given up arguing with him about it. I’d decided that retreating into silence was better.

‘God, they were the days. Take me back.’

The rustling of the leaves on the path filled the silence between us. I kept my eyes on the playground. I could feel him staring at me. It was like a great heat of fire burning on my right side. The image of his face intruded my thoughts. I could picture a line of drool dripping from the corner of his mouth, meandering down through his grey stubble and dried-in egg that was usually splattered on his face. My eyes twitched from the effort of resisting the temptation to turn.

‘Do you not miss it too?’ He asked. ‘Do you not want to go back to the old days?’

‘Yah.’ I said, throwing him a morsel of a response.

‘I would. In a heartbeat. I’d go back to those days without question.’

I took off my cap and twisted it in my hands. 

‘How did it all change? What happened? Things were so good.’

I grunted in response. I hadn’t meant to. I was about to shout at him, telling him he knew exactly why it had all changed, but I’d caught the words in the back of my throat before they’d exploded out through my cracked lips. 

‘They were, weren’t they? They were the days. The best days. And now look at us.’

Everyday he said this. Every. Single. Day. How did he not get tired of it all? Or was he just stuck in a loop? Forever rehearsing the same lines to the one man audience that I offered. What would he do if I wasn’t here? 

The patter of tiny feet came up from behind us, announcing the arrival of the most beautiful child I’d ever seen. I thought I was hearing things at first until he came around in front of us. I saw his giant eyes shining with an innocence that almost blinded me. His smile unconsciously forced my lips up in response. Children and employment had been missing from Ballycrone about the same time that hair had gone missing from my head. He toddled around to us and patted the curled up mound of off-white fur that was Banshee. He waved his little hand at me before running off towards the playground. I watched on as he opted to climb through the bars that fenced off the playground rather than go through the open hole where a gate used to stand. He stumbled around in an aimless direction, exploring everything and nothing. I wondered what he thought of the fallen logs from the remains of the wobbly bridge and the rubber tires that were being eaten up by the earth.

‘Typical, isn’t it?’ My friend said, ‘No child should be allowed in there now. It’s a death trap. Look at all those rusted bars. You wouldn’t see me letting my kid in there. Where are his parents anyway?’ 

My bones cracked as I turned to see a family of three in a slow walk towards us. A mother dressed in a hijab holding a baby close to her chest and a father wearing the same smile as his son. I nodded to them as the father continued on towards the playground. The mother sat down on my left, drawing a grunt of dissatisfaction from my friend on my other side.

‘Lovely day, isn’t it?’ I asked the mother. She turned to me with a half hearted smile. The bags under her eyes told me she was tired. It must have been a long night for her if the baby was sleeping so soundly against her breast. Her whole body screamed for sleep. Since it was a Sunday this was probably the only day all of her family could be together. These were memories she mustn’t have wanted to let slip by while her children were growing up.

‘Do you speak English?’ My friend asked. The woman didn’t respond. She was lost in her own world looking at her husband and son. ‘I knew it. Typical.’

I chewed my tongue. He was going to say something stupid and ruin this moment. He wouldn’t even know he was doing it until he’d done it. How could he be so clueless to the world around him. The perfume from the woman calmed this wave of anger that had crashed into my thoughts. It was a welcome scent, reminding me of the fresh roses I used to buy for my own wife before she left Ballycrone. 

My eyes focused on the father trying to push his son down the slide. Its polished surface had been eroded away by the rain and frost and years of neglect. The little boy tumbled rather than slid down its steep decline, landing in a tiny heap on the wood chippings below. He rose up with an excited giggle, throwing his arms in the air and flinging bits of wood up around him. He dusted himself down and toddled back over to his father to do it again. I felt an energy spark inside of me just looking at this young boy. The father was a lucky man to enjoy the most special of bonds with his son.

‘Where are you from?’ My friend asked, almost spelling out each letter of the word. His raised voice drew a glance from the father. 

‘Balbriggan.’ the mother replied, not turning to look at him. I recognised a strong Dublin accent. 

My cheeks turned red from embarrassment, ashamed to be associated with this man beside me. I twisted the cap in my hands into a tight knot, trying to expel this shame that was burning inside of me. I had to do something to stop him from ruining this special encounter.

‘Balbriggan? It's a long way from here. Why did you travel so far?’ I asked.

‘My husband. He gets these crazy ideas sometimes. Ever since covid ended he’s wanted to see as much of the countryside as possible.’

‘There’s not much down here to see.’ I said, just before my friend had a chance to butt in. My rush to speak had inadvertently made my tone sound rude, not informative. 

‘He’s right, there’s nothing here that would interest anyone.’

‘I think it’s nice.’ She said.

‘It used to be nice, before you and your family came here.’ I said, trying to suggest that long ago it used to be better. But this only came out sounding like her and her family’s arrival had ruined Ballycrone. Forming words and sentences had become harder and harder in my old age as there were fewer and fewer people to talk to. I had simply less practice speaking. I tried to show this mother how friendly I was by twitching my head, winking and jiggling my elbow around, trying to appear more jovial. This just made her shift further down the bench.

‘He’s right again. If I had a family I wouldn’t come within a mile of this graveyard.’

‘I like the space here. Sometimes Balbriggan can feel too crowded.’

An uncomfortable silence grew between us. I felt like a carton of milk being squashed between an unrelenting foot and the harsh tarmac below. ‘Ah you’re better off there.’ I blurted out. 

‘We can go wherever we want.’

‘Sorry, that’s not what I-’

‘Are you from Balbriggan originally?’ My friend asked.

‘No, I’m from Raheny. Not that it’s any of your business.’

‘Never been into business much. I worked for a boss all my life.’

‘You’ll have to excuse my friend, he’s a little hard of hearing.’ I said.

A cry from the little boy caught our attention. He came running towards his mother holding out his arm. She rushed over and knelt down to him. The father was walking lazily behind him with a sheepish smile on his face. Whatever had happened didn’t seem too serious. Still, there were pools of tears in the boy’s face, spilling down his chubby little cheeks. The mother asked something in a language I didn’t understand.

‘What did she say?’ My friend asked.

‘Shut up.’ I said.

‘She said that to her own son? Jesus, the new generation have no respect do they?’ 

 ‘I was speaking to him as Gaeilge, you idiots,’ she said, turning to us. Anger had replaced the tiredness in her eyes, ‘you should know our own language.’

I tried to offer a nervous smile in response. In my youth, when I had full control of all my muscles, the smile would have looked genuine. But now it must have come across as sneering. The anger in her eyes deepened and she told her husband that she wanted to go immediately. They stormed past us on their way out of the park. 

‘What was all that about?’ My friend asked.

I kept silent, stewing in my own anger and embarrassment. It wasn’t my fault that things had turned out like this; it was this eejit beside me. If it wasn’t for him I would have had a lovely conversation with that family. Maybe I would have seen them more regularly. Maybe they could have ended up moving to Ballycrone and breathed some life into these old bones. Instead, I’d been cemented in this purgatory by the actions of this idiot beside me. I dragged myself up off the bench, resolving to put an end to it all.

‘Going home already? You don’t fancy a pint down in Mulligans?’

‘No way.’ I said.

‘Did you say OK? I like your attitude, are you going there now?’ 

I moved around behind him and took either end of my walking stick in both hands. I pulled it up under his chin and began to choke him. He called out for me to stop but I pulled harder. His hands gripped the stick and tried to push it away, but I leaned back against his efforts, trying to crush it in against his windpipe. I’d almost succeeded in killing this embarrassment to me and what was left of Ballycrone when I felt a sharp pain bite into my leg. I screamed in shock and looked down to see that Banshee had sandwiched her single fag into my ankle. I yelled and kicked, trying to launch her off, but the old bitch held firm. I let go of the stick and stumbled around, kicking and flailing. My bad back prevented me from bending down and grasping her in both my hands.

‘What was that all about?’ My friend asked. His idiotic voice called out from somewhere in the spinning madness of my movements. By now I’d reached the playground, I could feel the loose wood chippings beneath the cushioned soles of my slippers. I knew if I could find my way to the slide I could kick her against its side and loosen her bite. I continued to spin and turn, not exactly sure where I was in the surrounding blur until I’d fallen on my back. 

‘What? What? What?’ I said, staring up at the grey clouds that had entombed Ballycrone since as long as I could remember. A metal bar was jutting out from my stomach like the steeple of a church. 

‘Jaysus, you’ve something sticking out of you there?’ My friend said, ‘Do you need a hand getting up?’ 

I turned my head to see him trying to shoo Banshee away from peeing on my leg. 

‘When cows swim, pigs fly.’ My thoughts were zipping past and crashing into each other like molecules in the Large Hadron Collider before fizzling into a darkness that was falling on my eyes. 

‘That’s probably why I’ve never seen a pig fly. Will I see you down at Mulligans so?’ My friend asked.

‘Order us a pinteen there.’

‘I don’t think they do poitín, but I’ll ask.’

Xs and Os

You always let me win, I know that now. But when I was an eight year old boy playing Xs and Os against you, I thought it was all down to my skill as a player. I thought I was a genius at placing an X in the middle first, giving me the best opportunity of winning. Of course I never questioned why you let me go first. I thought I was being clever. I was the one to draw up the boxes and so I was the first to start. Not even when we extended the game beyond nine boxes to twelve, to eighteen, to thirty, pushing the limits of this simple game, you always let me win. 

I still play the game today. It helps me pass the time in my clinic, signing prescriptions for patients who I know are lying to me. It’s where we crossed paths again. You didn’t recognise me at first but I recognised you. You’d changed your name, I’m not sure why. Were you hiding from something? Or someone? You couldn’t hide from me. I knew it was you. I hadn’t forgotten your eyes. Even though your face was forty years older you were still the same.

Do you remember what I used to say? “Winner, winner, check-in dinner.”  It would be years until I discovered it was meant to be “chicken dinner”. It would be even longer after this that I realised you let me win. I guess it was because I never thought about the past from your perspective. Not until the day you came into my clinic. I always thought of our memories together, but I was focused more on my experiences and my feelings. I never thought about how you must have felt. What was going through your mind when we went exploring in the park beyond our homes. Did you too believe that small wooded area was as big as a jungle? How did you feel when we stole that rope from your parent’s shed and used it to swing over puddles in the mud? Were you afraid of heights when we climbed through the branches and surveyed all the new building work that was going on around us? Our town was changing, our lives were changing, but I still thought it was all somehow permanent. Did you think the same?

Everything changed when I moved from the neighbourhood no more than a year after I arrived. My father had died and my mother needed to be closer to her family. Off we went from that small country village into the big city. There was no park there to swing on ropes from, only the rusted metal bars of a jungle gym in an overgrown playground. There were no kids my age to play Xs and Os with either, only my Mam. She never had time to play properly, I knew she let me win. She always traced her pen so quickly across the page in tight fisted Os. She was too busy raising us to concentrate on me. I was one of four. I was a number. I wasn’t a son anymore. I was a survivor. I had to grow up fast without a father and with a quarter of a mother. Her time was spent getting me and my three brothers set up in a new school. Getting us to play sports with local teams. Making sure we were studying. Making sure that we weren’t bullied. Working two jobs. Cooking dinners. Making lunches. Paying the rent. Paying the bills. She was stretched thin supporting all of our different lives. She didn’t even have time for herself. My brother’s disappeared into their own worlds. I was left alone to hang from the broken bars of the jungle gym. I didn’t want to go home to that cramped apartment. It felt more like a coffin than the one I’d seen my father in. How small he’d looked then. He’d been a giant when he’d towered over me, picking me up and tossing me in the air. I often wondered if they cut his legs to fit him into that coffin.

You appeared in my life again so suddenly. Walking through my clinic door like you were swinging on that rope we used to hang from. I listened to your lies just like all the others. I wore an invisible smile all that time, wondering when you’d remember me. You talked about the pain you were feeling in your back, it was the same lie I’d heard so many times before. I knew you could have done better than that. You could have come up with something more original, more believable. You said you couldn’t sleep at night. You said you were riddled with panic attacks, living in fear every day. I knew it was all lies. 

I waited patiently for you to stop. I waited for you to catch your breath. I let the silence grow between us. I waited for you to shift nervously in your seat. Do you remember what I said next?

‘What’s happened to you?’

‘I’m sorry? It’s my back, I told you. It’s in a terrible way.’

I sighed. You never stopped trying to fool me.

‘I have a game for us to play. I think you’ll like it.’

‘A game? What is this? I came here for my prescription.’

‘And you’ll get it, if you win this game. You’ll remember how to play it I’m sure.’

I tore off a sheet from my prescription pad. I drew four lines over each other. Two train tracks crossing once again.

‘I’ll let you go first.’ 

I passed you the pen. I couldn’t take my eyes off you. You held my stare. I could see a flicker of something behind your unblinking eyes. Was it recognition? Was it then that you remembered me?

‘Not there.’ I stopped you from putting an O on the top right box. Why did you always try and let me win? ‘I know you remember. First person uses X. And the best place to start is in the middle.’

‘Oh, I see. Thank you.’

You weren’t going to win. Not this time. You drew your X, then I drew my O. Then your turn, then mine. Then finally there appeared a diagonal row of beautiful Xs. 

‘You win. You must be very happy?’

‘I’m not sure. Does that mean I’ll get my prescription?’

‘Of course. You won, you get whatever you want.’

You listed off all that you needed. The names, the milligrams, the amounts. I gave it all to you. You were so happy. You stood at the door before leaving, clutching the prescription in your hand like it was a winning lottery ticket. ‘They all said you were a bit of a nutter, but I didn’t believe them.’

‘You were never one to listen to other people, were you Clare?’

‘My name’s Siobhan.’

‘Of course it is.’ 

I laughed. And so did you. Our dance had begun once again. How I missed those days. How I’m glad to have you back.