silly wee meeting, so unless you stop pissing around right away I’m going to mark this up as a mistake. And your hair looks like it’s upside-down. No offence. How’s all that for a response?’
She puts her head on one side, as if she’s about to try hard to connect with me, and smiles, goes, ‘None taken, yet I do think you’re a complete prick with the social skills of a trapped fart and I want you to leave right away.’
And I’m not sure I was expecting that.
I stand up, grab the bag, turn away, reach the door.
She goes, ‘Do you know your Yeats, Aloysius?’
I turn. She’s looking at me, stern but pretty, planning to recite some old balls, planning to get all meaningfully Celtic as I exit.
I say, ‘Wise up.’
I pull the door, pass Eunice and grab the handle of the far door. A tiny buzz releases it. Eunice didn’t look up from her computer, didn’t see anything she thought strange or unexpected. Eunice doesn’t offer a goodbye.
The door soft closes and hard clicks behind me and I shake my head, ready for the stairs, for the Dublin evening, for the rest of this crumbling day.
And that painting – rich green-and-brown woods to the left, a dusty grey road sweeping off to the right, a field rising up from the horizon, a distant red mountain – is right in front of me now.
I go cold because I have climbed in those trees to watch over the wall where the old man swims. I freeze and know it is not even possible that this is a coincidence. It is not even possible that of all the images in the world, they have this one, here, in front of me right now.
I have to move on, I have to shake this shock away and go down these stairs. I must be mistaken. I’m seeing things. Places look like other places all over the world.
I get to the front door, hit the buzzer and Yeats hits me, the words I should have said thirty seconds ago.
I should have said, ‘I will arise and go now’ just to annoy her as I left the office.
Chapter Eight
June 2016
IN A shopping centre looking at shite on T-shirts, considering my options, and my phone goes.
Martin Gird says, ‘I’ll see you at your hotel bar in ten minutes.’
He’s grinning when I walk in five minutes later. He’s in the corner, tie loosened. His hand goes up, then curves round and points, like an ostrich’s head, to the barmaid.
‘Will you take a pint?’
I go, ‘Fizzy water.’
Martin calls to her, ‘And whatever he said, thanks.’
The Slavic barmaid, topping off a pint of Guinness, nods as I sit. He shakes his head at me as a cap is tugged from a bottle, rolls onto the floor.
‘Well that didn’t go too fucking well,’ he says, that Dub accent thicker than I’d noticed before.
We say nothing as the barmaid drops off the drinks. She’s twenty-four.
He lifts his glass. ‘Here’s to the day. Sláinte .’
‘ Sláinte , Martin.’
I drink and he doesn’t, sets his pint back down.
He looks at my water, it dawning on him that it’s not beer. He leaves it. Then looks back to it.
‘You never settled back into Ireland,’ he says, not asking it.
‘Twenty-odd years away, give or take, as you know.’
He goes, ‘I do.’
He goes, ‘Imelda Feather.’
I go, ‘That her name?’
‘It is,’ he says. ‘She’s accident prone. If she’s driving her car or climbing some steps, it can all go tits up any moment, y’know?’
‘Right.’
‘I’ve learned that about her,’ he says, turning his glass around, looking at the perfect line forming between that painted cream and black.
‘She could be standing somewhere and something will fall on her head, y’know? She could bump into a Wi-Fi signal, that woman. She’s attractive to bad luck, to accidents and incidents, y’know?’
‘Right.’
‘Do you know what I mean?’
‘I do.’
‘I mean, fuck’s sake, she walked into a press conference I was looking after one day, Department of Health, years ago. She was paying no attention at all, writing something down, fell clean
She puts her head on one side, as if she’s about to try hard to connect with me, and smiles, goes, ‘None taken, yet I do think you’re a complete prick with the social skills of a trapped fart and I want you to leave right away.’
And I’m not sure I was expecting that.
I stand up, grab the bag, turn away, reach the door.
She goes, ‘Do you know your Yeats, Aloysius?’
I turn. She’s looking at me, stern but pretty, planning to recite some old balls, planning to get all meaningfully Celtic as I exit.
I say, ‘Wise up.’
I pull the door, pass Eunice and grab the handle of the far door. A tiny buzz releases it. Eunice didn’t look up from her computer, didn’t see anything she thought strange or unexpected. Eunice doesn’t offer a goodbye.
The door soft closes and hard clicks behind me and I shake my head, ready for the stairs, for the Dublin evening, for the rest of this crumbling day.
And that painting – rich green-and-brown woods to the left, a dusty grey road sweeping off to the right, a field rising up from the horizon, a distant red mountain – is right in front of me now.
I go cold because I have climbed in those trees to watch over the wall where the old man swims. I freeze and know it is not even possible that this is a coincidence. It is not even possible that of all the images in the world, they have this one, here, in front of me right now.
I have to move on, I have to shake this shock away and go down these stairs. I must be mistaken. I’m seeing things. Places look like other places all over the world.
I get to the front door, hit the buzzer and Yeats hits me, the words I should have said thirty seconds ago.
I should have said, ‘I will arise and go now’ just to annoy her as I left the office.
Chapter Eight
June 2016
IN A shopping centre looking at shite on T-shirts, considering my options, and my phone goes.
Martin Gird says, ‘I’ll see you at your hotel bar in ten minutes.’
He’s grinning when I walk in five minutes later. He’s in the corner, tie loosened. His hand goes up, then curves round and points, like an ostrich’s head, to the barmaid.
‘Will you take a pint?’
I go, ‘Fizzy water.’
Martin calls to her, ‘And whatever he said, thanks.’
The Slavic barmaid, topping off a pint of Guinness, nods as I sit. He shakes his head at me as a cap is tugged from a bottle, rolls onto the floor.
‘Well that didn’t go too fucking well,’ he says, that Dub accent thicker than I’d noticed before.
We say nothing as the barmaid drops off the drinks. She’s twenty-four.
He lifts his glass. ‘Here’s to the day. Sláinte .’
‘ Sláinte , Martin.’
I drink and he doesn’t, sets his pint back down.
He looks at my water, it dawning on him that it’s not beer. He leaves it. Then looks back to it.
‘You never settled back into Ireland,’ he says, not asking it.
‘Twenty-odd years away, give or take, as you know.’
He goes, ‘I do.’
He goes, ‘Imelda Feather.’
I go, ‘That her name?’
‘It is,’ he says. ‘She’s accident prone. If she’s driving her car or climbing some steps, it can all go tits up any moment, y’know?’
‘Right.’
‘I’ve learned that about her,’ he says, turning his glass around, looking at the perfect line forming between that painted cream and black.
‘She could be standing somewhere and something will fall on her head, y’know? She could bump into a Wi-Fi signal, that woman. She’s attractive to bad luck, to accidents and incidents, y’know?’
‘Right.’
‘Do you know what I mean?’
‘I do.’
‘I mean, fuck’s sake, she walked into a press conference I was looking after one day, Department of Health, years ago. She was paying no attention at all, writing something down, fell clean
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