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<\/p>\nHis eyes squint as the 6am light reflects off the plastic bags, cans and crisp packets of the Grand Canal. Portobello has never looked so good, as his legs struggle up the incline away from the city. The sound of the water makes him suddenly acutely aware of the thirst in his mouth, the remnants of warm beer long-replaced by an all-encompassing dryness with a sinister chemical edge. His stomach suddenly cramps, and the effort of the walk is now superseded by a fierce clench. Fifty-year-old bus driver shits himself on city bridge\u00a0\u2013 the headline flashes before his fading eyes and a smile cracks out from his parched mouth. But he holds on and continues down towards Rathmines. And as he struggles down the main street past the barracks, the birds high up above the rugby pitch chirp. And he looks at the message scrawled on his hand\u00a0\u2013 \u2018Tomorrow the birds will sing\u2019 \u2013 the marker still visible along with the minuscule cartoon birds in question. And he knows it to be true, for Dennis O\u2019Kane has never felt this alive.<\/p>\n
Twelve hours earlier, and it\u2019s the 5.15 at Kempton Park. That was the big one. Circled in the Post over his corn flakes, there was some serious value to be had. Those heavy spring showers really fucked up both form book and favourite, and the various weather forecasts he\u2019d seen placed a nice dousing for the greater London area right around 4. Brentford vs Burton would be a good indicator \u2013 throw a couple of quid on that, find some dodgy website from the Far East showing it and fire on 50quid on Paco\u2019s Prince once the heavens opened over west London. That would take him right up to 6 o\u2019clock or so, certainly late enough for a few celebratory cans of Lidl\u2019s finest. Premium Pils for a premium Saturday.<\/p>\n
The morning sun bounces off the metallic blue Fiesta outside his window. There was certainly no chance of it moving anytime soon\u00a0\u2013 he\u2019d heard the hippie girl next door come in fairly late last night, and come fairly heavily this morning. Yet another Saturday tradition in Grosvenor Gardens, one of the downsides of this cheaply built 1970s apartment block. The amber shine on the TV nearly stirred something in him, as it always did. Weekends spent punting and pinting in the rain suited him perfectly. Grey days were guilt free for a grey existence. But the sun was far more judgemental. It pierced the trees, emerging from a shadowy blue sky to permeate his ground floor flat and in one swoop of light ask the question\u00a0\u2013 is this it? Is this really it? And the answer for the last ten years had been a yes, an anguished, numbed yes sustained by accumulators and aluminium Ales. An existence that he generally accepted as his destiny, but that stung on those sunny Saturday mornings to the soundtrack of a stranger\u2019s sexual climax.<\/p>\n
He crossed the Rathmines Road, interactions complete for another day. \u2018That\u2019s 6.89, do you have a Clubcard?\u2019 \u2018he\u2019s in to 7s now, that ok?\u2019 \u2019any change?\u2019 A couple of old lads smoked angrily outside Grace\u2019s pub, stale smell of Budweiser and farts permeating out the door. He\u2019d given it a go, become a familiar face for a while, but it wasn\u2019t quite him. Sometimes he could sup away in silence or pass a few comments on whatever was on in the corner. But there\u2019d always be some loud cunt who would ruin it. Always had to get the last word in. \u2018I\u2019ll tell you this for nothing\u2026\u2019 That or bring up the missus. Or the kids. And he\u2019d sit there and stare into his pint, pining for an inexistent memory.<\/p>\n
5.18. The muck flies up past the leathery hooves as they approach the second last, Paco\u2019s Prince beginning his charge to the front. The silver can begins to crumple under the tense grip as the heartbeat quickens. The warm pissy beer momentarily quenches the nervous dryness and the world is a distant back marker to the action. Clears the last in second, but the favourite is leggy as fuck and he knows it. The whip cracks frantically but it\u2019s redundant as Paco\u2019s Prince strides past, gliding over the heavy ground. Chuck a bit of rain down and those fancy English cunt horses don\u2019t stand a chance. Paco\u2019s Prince, descendent of some knacker horse and trained in the non-regal Roscommon storms it at 10s. Get the fuck in. And before the high diminishes the door knocks. What the fuck. Who the fuck. Ah sure g\u2019wan the fuck.<\/p>\n
\u2018Yes?\u2019
\nConfused. Beautiful, but confused. \u2018Simon?\u2019
\n\u2018Eh sorry?\u2019
\n\u2018Simon, the Airbnb?\u2019<\/p>\n
She\u2019s not Irish, that much is clear. She\u2019s also definitely not here to see him. Nobody looking like this would be standing here to see him. Come to think of it, nobody would be standing here to see him.<\/p>\n
Victorious euphoria beginning to wear off sharply, as sweat forms on his neck.<\/p>\n
\u2018I think you have the wrong door. No Simon or Airbnb here.\u2019<\/p>\n
Mild distress, and he notices the case for the first time. Noticed the wet hair as drips formed on his doorstep. Those spring showers clearly weren\u2019t confined to west London, the change in weather having gone unnoticed by him.<\/p>\n
\u2018Is not Airbnb?\u2019
\n\u2018No\u2019
\nI\u2019m very sorry for disturb you.\u201d<\/p>\n
The sadness in her eyes. He\u2019d never seen anything like it. Never been captivated by something so instantly, strongly and painfully.<\/p>\n
\u2018No that\u2019s ok. I wasn\u2019t up to much. Where were you looking for anyway?\u2019<\/p>\n
Confusion again, but of a different type. The look of someone without a fucking clue what\u2019s just been said. To be fair, communication had never been his strong point.<\/p>\n
\u2018Ahhh\u00a0\u2013 can you say again?\u2019
\n\u2018Yeah where were you looking for? What address? House number?\u2019 Speaking slower this time\u00a0\u2013 fuck does she think I\u2019m treating her like a retard? Sweat building, ads loudly interrupting in the background.
\n\u2018Ah yes, yes.\u2019<\/p>\n
She took her phone out. It was always these moments she\u2019d mistype her pin. Had to be on some strange doorstep in some strange town, talking to a stranger who was speaking some completely alien form of English.<\/p>\n
\u2018One moment\u2019, as she cleared a comically large raindrop from her screen. A mutual laugh
\n\u2018Bit wet out there\u00a0\u2013 was sunny and all this morning!\u2019
\n\u2018Oh yes\u00a0\u2013 oh no! I am too late\u2019
\n\u2018Sure could be back in an hour\u00a0\u2013 you never know\u2019
\n\u2018Here\u00a0\u2013 Apartment 3, Grosvenor Halls, Rathmines,\u2019 Their heads briefly touched as she showed him the phone, a 21st century fleeting moment. She smelled like heaven, and he was immediately aware he smelled of Lidl Cans, a chipper and a 50 year-old batchelor with a Heinz-heavy diet.
\n\u2018Right so I\u2019m 3 Grosvenor Gardens, Halls is the other side of the car park.\u2019<\/p>\n
More confusion.<\/p>\n
\u2018C\u2019mon I\u2019ll show you.\u2019<\/p>\n
He stepped across the threshold and pointed her in the right direction.<\/p>\n
She made her way across the potholed courtyard, and he felt a sudden urge to keep the conversation going.<\/p>\n
\u2018Holiday is it?\u2019
\n\u2018Yes yes\u00a0\u2013 holiday!\u2019 as she looked back at him through the rain.
\n\u2018Well you picked a great place!\u2019 the sarcasm clear even through the linguistic border.<\/p>\n
And as she entered into the building across the way she glanced back at him and laughed\u00a0\u2013 \u2018So far so good! Thank you!\u2019<\/p>\n
Door closes and for a few seconds he lingers outside. The tv is still on, horses being paraded for the next race. The horses that have paraded round that living room for the last ten years. Those fucking horses. He sits down, reaches for his can and takes a sip. 1m6f heavy going, grade 3. No clear favourite but fuck all value. Her scent lingers. Fuck all value. How many races has he watched with fuck all value. How much of his life has he spent sitting here. Fuck all value. His head is racing, his heart pumping. \u2018What the fuck have you done. What the fuck have you done. Fifty years-old and this is it. Fifty fucking years!\u2019 The remote smashing the wall startles him, as the batteries roll across his cheap, dark green carpet. And before he can stop himself the TV is off, his keys are in his hand and he\u2019s gone.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
The Dodder. It hadn\u2019t been the best choice of route to evaluate his existence, as young life and love buzzed back and forth to Trinity Halls, repealing and appealing. But he\u2019d made it to the Dodder, and now he sat and watched it flow. Briefly he thinks of jumping in. Not as a suicide thing\u00a0\u2013 he\u2019d never really been into that. More just to do something. But sure he\u2019d only end up back in the depot in Donnybrook, only this time a wet miserable cunt. One adjective wasn\u2019t going to change much. And then he thought of her. He wasn\u2019t delusional. She must have been half his age, and if he was a Bohs she was a Barcelona. Short of a seriously dramatic injection of funds that wasn\u2019t going to happen. But still. There was something more. Her eyes had so much life in them, so much expression. She was hardly going to fuck him or anything, but he felt she could help him. He felt she had to help him. And as the rain started to fall again to the rustle of wind and leaves he looked around and realised his thirty minute walk to this bench was the furthest he had walked in months or even years. Rocks parted the water as it surged down from the Dublin Mountains, currents merging together again effortlessly on their race to Ringsend.<\/p>\n
Nature made it look so easy, like it was all part of an inevitable process. And for many years he had assumed life was the same. He\u2019d sat and waited for it to happen. Waited for the girlfriend, the wedding, the kids, the grandkids\u00a0\u2013 the milestones that those around him ticked off as they faded further from his life into their own. Friends from his road, lads from school, his brother, lads in work. \u2018I met a bird,\u2019 \u2018I\u2019ve been seeing that Sarah wan from round the corner,\u2019 \u2018lads got a bitta news\u00a0\u2013 you\u2019ll be needing your suits next summer!\u2019 \u2018its a boy!\u2019 \u2018Fucking Johnny\u2019s got his girlfriend pregnant.\u2019 It had always seemed so natural to them. Breathe, eat, love, live. And as the group left behind got smaller, the comments started to hurt a bit more. \u2018Ah sure you just have to find the right one!\u2019 \u2018You\u2019re better off without\u00a0\u2013 they\u2019re a fucking a nightmare.\u2019 \u2018How about you Dennis\u00a0\u2013 any birds on the go?\u2019 Like a sprinter on a mountain stage, when the peloton dropped you it hurt more. And there\u2019d been the occasional glimmer, the odd hope of getting back on. A few dates here and there, a couple of the sexual hurdles cleared. But then just as he\u2019d grabbed someone\u2019s wheel the pace was cranked up, until eventually he\u2019d let go. The river flowed on and the rock stood still.<\/p>\n
\u2018Its beautiful, no? Is the Doo-Der?\u2019<\/p>\n
Jesus. It was her. What the fuck was she doing in Milltown?<\/p>\n
\u2018Yeah yeah, lovely. We say the Do-dder though. Not many tourists come here! You get into the apartment ok?\u2019
\n\u2018Ah yes yes. Thank you again! You come to the Do-dder a lot? Is a nice walk!\u2019
\n\u2018Eh yeah.. no not too much no. Actually not for years.\u2019
\n\u2018And today?\u2019
\n\u2018Eh.. just felt like a walk. Good to stretch the legs I guess.\u2019<\/p>\n
A silence. Normally a silence was welcome\u00a0\u2013 an escape route back to the sofa. But he\u2019d already traded the sofa in for a wooden bench so he pressed on.<\/p>\n
\u2018So what has you in Dublin?\u2019
\n\u2018Holidays. Its not a normal place for holidays?\u2019
\n\u2018I guess it is, but Temple Bar or the Guinnes Factory and all that stuff. Not really Rathmines and the River Dodder!\u2019<\/p>\n
She laughed. She didn\u2019t fully understand him, though it was getting easier, but there was something comforting about him. His complete lack of sophistication, his honesty\u00a0\u2013 there was no agenda here. There wasn\u2019t going to be a subtle touch of her shoulder, or some invented shit about Brecht or Voltaire.<\/p>\n
\u2018Exactly! Everyone goes there. I don\u2019t come here to see more French people, or Spanish or Americans. I come to see Irish people and the\u2026 Dodder.\u2019
\n\u2018Fair enough\u00a0\u2013 sure Temple Bar\u2019s a fucking shithole and the Guinness Factory is just 15 quid for a pint. And you\u2019d get a better one down the local anyway.\u2019
\n\u2018Local?\u2019
\n\u2018Ah sorry\u00a0\u2013 a local pub. One with no tourists.\u2019<\/p>\n
Was it technically a local if you hadn\u2019t been in about four years? The place was rammed, the old lads seeking refuge in the passageway between the jacks and the smoking area as the younger crowd milled around the bar. She returned with two more Guinness. It may have been 4 years, but his memory was spot on about the pint Slatterys did.<\/p>\n
\u2018Its got to be creamy, but smooth. Kind of velvety.\u2019
\n\u2018But how can it be good in one pub and not another pub?\u2019
\n\u2018It just is, but you can tell by looking at a place. No music, old lads and lots of wood\u00a0\u2013 you\u2019re getting a good pint. Pop music, disco lights and a plastic glass you may as well drink your own shite.\u2019<\/p>\n
He regretted the vulgarity but she loved it.<\/p>\n
\u2018Ok, we need to compare it. I need to see.\u2019
\n\u2018You want to drink shite?\u2019
\n\u2018No! I want to try Guiness in another pub! To see the difference.\u2019<\/p>\n
Another pub, coming up with one had been a struggle. He couldn\u2019t in all consciousness bring her near Grace\u2019s, couple of the ones down in Donnybrook maybe\u2026<\/p>\n
\u2018You know the George Bernard Shaw?\u2019
\n\u2018The writer?\u2019
\n\u2018No no, is a pub. My friend lived two years in Ireland. Recommended it me. The same person who recommended me Rathmines!\u2019<\/p>\n
She looked him in the eye, almost conspiratorially. Flashes of decades ago, when a girl got that look in her eye. Annie Kelly in the Bleeding Horse, her hand resting on his leg. He\u2019d almost blown his load. He knew this was different\u00a0\u2013 very little chance of a fumble down Pleasants Place\u00a0\u2013 but the glint was the same. And it was fucking magical.<\/p>\n
\u2018Richmond Street\u2019 as she showed him her phone.<\/p>\n
That one. Mad looking place. Hipster, I believe the term is. Suddenly he was incredibly aware of his old corduroy trousers and baggy shirt resting on his belly of many years of neglect.<\/p>\n
\u2018Ah yeah. You want to go there? Eh\u2026 yeah wouldn\u2019t be my style I guess but yeah. sure go on. Bet you the Guinness is shite though!\u2019<\/p>\n
The wind on the street bit at her cheeks and cleared some of the brown, stouty fuzz from her brain. Maybe this was why they drank so much, because the weather smashed you sober. And suddenly the oddity of her situation forced itself on her. She had been in Dublin for a few hours. She was drunk. She was with a fat, old man. Well not grand-pere old, but 50+. 30 years older maybe? Travelling alone always hinted at some sort of romantic possibility, but this was certainly not one of them. This was not a George Clooney, not the mysterious Irish man her friends had joked about. \u2018Oh you\u2019re going alone? Interesting\u2026 Are you coming back alone?\u2019 But she was having a great time.<\/p>\n
\u2018Look I know I\u2019m probably not who you pictured spending your night here with so if you want to head off or have friends to meet, that\u2019s grand. No need to bring me along.\u2019<\/p>\n
The interruption, the silence the street, the traffic, It had thrown him. What the fuck was he doing here ruining this girl\\s night? A sudden urge to run back to his comfort zone, grab a bag of chips, let off the fart he\u2019d been sitting on for about 20 minutes.<\/p>\n
\u2018No, no\u00a0\u2013 come on! We have to try this other pint.\u2019 She didn\u2019t want him to go. She didn\u2019t want to default to her people. She didn\u2019t want to wander into Dublin, find people who looked like her. Find people who talked like her, thought like her. Find some guy who fucked like her and ate brunch like her. For this weekend she didn\u2019t want that bullshit, the same lines and conversations. Pills and ruminations on Le Pen, house music and start ups.<\/p>\n
He fucking hated this place. For someone who\u2019d spent 4 years in silence watching horses on a moderately comfortable sofa, this was too much, too quick. He lifted his glass and the plastic threw another few millilitres of brown on his hand. Nothing worse than bad Guinness, but they\u2019d hit a rhythm and he couldn\u2019t change. The conversation had mostly been about her and Dublin. She fielded questions on the former, he was the expert on the latter. Twenty-five-years-old. From Paris. No clue who Neymar was and indeed it had nearly killed the conversation. Intrigued by Irish culture and had planned the trip with an ex. Decided to do it solo, hence in the Bernard Shaw with a fat bus driver.<\/p>\n
The basics had been divulged earlier in round one\u00a0\u2013 name, job and marital status. He was Dennis, she was Chloe. He drove buses, she worked in graphic design. He was single. She was single. The latter had segued into rounds two to six. The ex, The idea of Dublin. The mutual break up that turned out not to be so mutual. The drama of the French. Irish drama. Joyce. Behan. The great tradition of the drunken wordsmith, the tragedy settling at the bottom of the glass while the tomes travelled the world. But as the bell tolls for round 7, she lands the first decisive punch.<\/p>\n
\u2018Were you ever married before?\u2019 It was funny how rounds did that. A conversation could be halted mid-stream while beverages were acquired, and a completely new one struck up to herald their return. No warning, no context\u00a0\u2013 each pint was its own snippet and this one Dennis O\u2019Kane had been dreading more and more over the last ten years.<\/p>\n
\u2018Eh, no. Never walked the plank, as they say.\u2019
\n\u2018The plank?\u2019<\/p>\n
Fuck. The whole language thing. Sweat pores opened again, clocking serious overtime of a Saturday.<\/p>\n
\u2018It\u2019s an expression\u2026 but yeah, never got married\u2019
\n\u2018Did you ever nearly get married?\u2019<\/p>\n
Ah here. That first punch developed into a sequence. Irish people wouldn\u2019t ask you that. Must be a continental thing. He looked at her, her expectant gaze unaware of any faux-pas having being committed.<\/p>\n
\u2018Nah, not really. I mean it depends on what you mean by nearly but.. no.. not even nearly.\u2019 It really didn\u2019t depend on what was meant by nearly.
\n\u2018Is normal in Ireland?\u2019<\/p>\n
Temporary relief, as she starts talking about declining marriage rates in France. How it\u2019s fairly common these days for people to just co-habit. But he knows its only temporary and it\u2019s time to throw in the towel.<\/p>\n
\u2018Ah look, the truth is\u2026 I never really had anything serious.\u2019
\n\u2018Serious?\u2019
\n\u2018I\u2026 never really had what you would call a girlfriend.\u2019
\n\u2018Ah.. you are gay?\u2019 Says it like she\u2019s solved a fucking puzzle or something.
\n\u2018Ah jaysus no.. I mean not that its a problem.. but look at me, I hardly look it, do I?\u2019<\/p>\n
She laughs, eschewing her default political correctness.<\/p>\n
\u2018Well\u2026 no maybe not.\u2019<\/p>\n
He wants to leave. He wants to get up, throw his plastic pint over this crowd of young, happy cunts and retreat back to Rathmines. But she keeps looking at him. An expectant smile that knows he will submit. And suddenly he starts telling his story. A few dates in his late teens \/ early 20s, the odd ride up to his mid 30s and then nothing. Friends paired off and faded away. Those that remained would focus nights out on setting him up, the mortification of being shoved towards some poor girl in the corner to bore the ear off her for five minutes and apologetically move on.<\/p>\n
\u2018Why?\u2019
\n\u2018Eh.. like I said, just never really found anyone.\u2019
\n\u2018No.. I ask why, not what. Why did you never \u2018find someone?\u2019<\/p>\n
The air quotes. The jugular. Shame turns to anger, but still she smiles. There\u2019s no malice there. There\u2019s purpose.<\/p>\n
\u2018I guess\u2026 I don\u2019t know. I mean\u2026 I\u2019m not exactly George Clooney, am I? I watch football and horses, I drive a bus and my diet is oven chips and pints.\u2019<\/p>\n
Silence. The smile, the stare but silence.<\/p>\n
\u2018I was never good at talking to people. Like with a group I was ok, I could contribute. But one-to-one\u2026 I don\u2019t know what to say. I never knew what to say. A rake of pints used to help, but even then\u2026\u2019<\/p>\n
He trails off. There\u2019s a lump forming in his throat.<\/p>\n
Silence.<\/p>\n
\u2018Like.. if I liked a girl I\u2019d get nervous. I\u2019d\u2026 I knew I wasn\u2019t worthy. They\u2019d want someone better.\u2019<\/p>\n
Silence. He\u2019s struggling to keep it together.<\/p>\n
\u2018Or I\u2019d start thinking about what my mates would say.\u2019\u00a0See them all in the corner laughing. \u2018Dennis is after scoring some rotten bird\u00a0\u2013 it was the pressure. I\u2026 I\u2026 I don\u2019t know. I just don\u2019t know.\u2019
\n\u2018Dennis\u2026\u2019<\/p>\n
She holds his hand. Relief. It\u2019s over – he can sense it\u2019s over.<\/p>\n
\u2018If you do not love yourself, you will not love anybody else. If you do not love yourself, nobody will love you.\u2019
\n\u2018What?\u2019
\n\u2018You have to love yourself first. Before anything else.\u2019
\n\u2018This advice would have been nice 20 years ago\u2026\u2019
\n\u2018Its advice for now. For today. You can start today\u2019
\n\u2018Yeah\u2026 easy to say. Easy for you to say\u2026 you have everything going for you. You\u2019re young, you\u2019re beautiful, you\u2019re\u2026 happy.\u2019<\/p>\n
Her smile doesn\u2019t waver. Her glance doesn\u2019t break.<\/p>\n
\u2018And so are you. You can be beautiful, you can be happy\u2026 young\u2026 well ok, maybe not young.\u2019<\/p>\n
They laugh. A badly needed moment of comic relief.<\/p>\n
\u2018I\u2019m not beautiful though, and I don\u2019t think I\u2019m happy\u2026\u2019
\n\u2018Are you happy tonight?\u2019
\n\u2018Tonight\u2026 until about 10 minutes ago!\u2019<\/p>\n
Meant as a joke, and she takes it that way. More laughter. Then silence. A longer silence and she finally looks away, as if she\u2019s calculating something.<\/p>\n
\u2018Ok, I know what we do. Tonight we have fun, and tonight we make you feel happy and beautiful. Wait here.\u2019<\/p>\n
His brain is fried. Piecing together the last few hours. Painfully regretting the last few decades. Pondering the next few minutes. Is she coming back? What\u2019s she got planned? Am I getting sucked off here? The pints have definitely gone to the head.<\/p>\n
She comes back and takes his hand. Something is pressed into his palm. Her eyes dart quickly around the smoking area.<\/p>\n
\u2018Take this.\u2019
\n\u2018What?\u2019
\n\u2018Quickly! Take this!\u2019
\n\u2018What is it?\u2019
\n\u2018Ecstasy\u2019<\/p>\n
Drugs and love. Two things he\u2019d never touched. And two things he\u2019d seen consume a fair few mates.<\/p>\n
\u2018Ah here, I don\u2019t do that shit. Never have.\u2019
\n\u2018You don\u2019t go out drinking with young French girls either! Try! It\u2019s not a lot, but you\u2019ll like it. It will help you.\u2019<\/p>\n
She looks up at him, eyes expectant and insistent. He knows this only ends one way.<\/p>\n
\u2018Now we can have fun.\u2019<\/p>\n
The thing is so small he barely feels it. If it weren\u2019t for the slight chemical tinge in his throat he wouldn\u2019t be sure he\u2019d taken it. How the fuck does this tiny thing leave fellas on the floor?<\/p>\n
\u2018So what\u2019s supposed to be happening to me now?\u2019
\n\u2018Nothing! It takes time. You\u2019ll know when you know.\u2019
\n\u2018I\u2019ll take your word for it, but I\u2019m not sure its going to do much to a big lad like myself.\u2019<\/p>\n
Forty-five minutes later and he\u2019s standing at the bar by the dance floor. Warmth is rushing through his blood, words rushing out his mouth. The young lads he\u2019s talking to are clearly loving the novelty of it, the novelty of him. but it\u2019s love all the same. He sips his Becks and savours the surge of hops into his dry mouth. The dryness causes the briefest sense of panic and dread, the briefest moment of apothecary awe. How the fuck is something so small so powerful? But the anxiety is washed away as quickly as it arose, as this newly formed brain trust calculate he most likely drove them to school for 6 years.<\/p>\n
\u2018I\u2019m telling yiz, I drove that 16 bus for six years. Fucking hated you lot crowding the corridor in your fucking oversized blazers. Never got how yous were able to chat to any women at all looking like extras from a fucking production of Bugsy Malone.\u2019<\/p>\n
\u2018Did you know half of us were sneaking on without paying?\u2019<\/p>\n
\u2018Of course I fucking knew, You weren\u2019t MI5 lads! Did I care was a different question. Whether Dublin Bus got their hands on your 50p or not was no real concern of mine.\u2019<\/p>\n
\u2018The shit we used to get up to on that top floor\u2026 smoking joints, getting hand jobs down the back.\u2019
\n\u2018We saw it all. There was a few lads in the garage who were known for taking a bit too much interest in the cameras if I\u2019m being honest.\u2019<\/p>\n
The conversation goes on, and Dennis is suddenly an observer, surveying the scene in front of him. The scene around him. The crowd is swaying, if not in unison, in generally asynchronous frantic motions to the music. Chloe hovers around making acquaintances but never moving too far away. And at the centre, there he stands. He knows he stands out. He knows there\u2019s nobody like him, not even remotely like him there. He senses and sees the odd looks and comments from the shadows, the disdainful eye of the dickhead behind the bar. But he doesn\u2019t care. He\u2019s aware it\u2019s the chemicals talking, but he doesn\u2019t care.<\/p>\n
Somewhere just off the South Circular Road. He sinks into a dusty sofa while around him people dance. Tiredness is taking over and the offer of \u2018top ups\u2019 sensibly declined.\u00a0 The smell of spliff, so recognisable from so many routes, hangs heavily in the air. Out of the illicit smoke Chloe emerges from the impromptu living room dance floor. She sinks down beside him.<\/p>\n
\u2018So?\u2019
\n\u2018So?\u2019
\n\u2018So did you have fun? Do you feel happy?\u2019<\/p>\n
Such a simple question, but he takes an age before answering. His brain struggles with the various computations and calculations.<\/p>\n
\u2018I had fun. I definitely had fun. Compared to an evening of betting on the horses I had great fucking fun. But happy?\u2026. It\u2019s hard to say. I mean \u2026 yeah I was happy for the night, but like, tomorrow this is just a hangover and a memory. Maybe a story. It doesn\u2019t change anything.\u2019<\/p>\n
\u2018Yes.. tomorrow you will feel terrible. And probably the day after that too! Maybe even in the next couple of hours.\u2019
\n\u2018Cheers for that. Feeling much better now\u2019
\n\u2018Ha well, you will feel terrible maybe. But you will also feel different. You will think and realise that happiness is possible. Life is possible. If you let your brain see it.\u2019
\n\u2018So take these things every day?\u2019
\n\u2018No! I think never take them again. But remember that feeling. Remember how you talk to me, to them, to yourself. Remember the difference to how you talk to yourself this morning.\u2019
\n\u2018It does\u2019t work that way. I mean I\u2019ve gone drinking and been happy. Woke up the next day and felt shit. I know how this works.\u2019
\n\u2018Dennis, do you like films?\u2019
\n\u2018Cinema\u00a0\u2013 do you like cinema?\u2019<\/p>\n
She likes these fucking random questions. Suddenly he\u2019s properly fucking wrecked.<\/p>\n
\u2018Eh yeah, I guess. I mean, everyone likes films, no? Look, I think I\u2019m going to head. Leave you to it.\u2019
\n\u2018My favourite film is with Charlie Chaplin. City Lights. It is a silent film, but there are words in it I never forget. The main character finds a man who is by the water. He is going to kill himself. And Charlie Chaplin, the main character, says this line to him.\u2019<\/p>\n
She takes his arm and turns it over. She has a marker in her hand. And then she\u2019s writing.<\/p>\n
He reads it. \u2018Tomorrow the Birds will Sing.\u2019<\/p>\n
\u2018Tomorrow the birds will sing. Tomorrow can always be a better day than today. But you have to believe it and you have to make it happen. You will still have horrible days, you will still have horrible moments. But if you keep believing this, if you keep thinking of this message, you will be ok. Listen to the birds.\u2019<\/p>\n
She draws two little birds to complement her quote.<\/p>\n
\u2018Do you always do this?\u2019
\n\u2018Do what?\u2019<\/p>\n
She leans over and kisses him on the cheek.<\/p>\n
\u2018Goodbye Dennis. Thank you for showing me Dublin and for showing me you.\u2019<\/p>\n
His eyes squint as the 6am light reflects off the plastic bags, cans and crisp packets of the Grand Canal. Portobello has never looked so good, as his legs struggle up the incline away from the city. The sound of the water makes him suddenly acutely aware of the thirst in his mouth, the remnants […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":105,"featured_media":3519,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[26,1],"tags":[203],"class_list":["post-3494","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-fiction","category-uncategorized","tag-2019february"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/casswp.eutonom.eu\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3494","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/casswp.eutonom.eu\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/casswp.eutonom.eu\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/casswp.eutonom.eu\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/105"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/casswp.eutonom.eu\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=3494"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/casswp.eutonom.eu\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3494\/revisions"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/casswp.eutonom.eu\/index.php\/wp-json\/"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/casswp.eutonom.eu\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=3494"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/casswp.eutonom.eu\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=3494"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/casswp.eutonom.eu\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=3494"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}