Contents Pauline Greer – Two Blue d Line Dan Mckenna – Sanctuary Bobby Harnett – Gurge Sam Noonan – Poem Liam Doyle – Good Time Greg Johnny Hird – The Befouling Hayley Thomas – Milo’s Wish Anna O’Reilly – Forgotten Fields: Part One - Diarmuid The Two B lued Line Pauline Greer 1,507 words George felt the familiar surge of discomfort when she took his hand in hers. Apart from the unease, he was aware that it was followed by several other threads of emotion; pain, frustration, hot burning anger, but also w armth; there was always that comforting warmth. Strange how one cold to the touch little hand could provoke such emotional mayhem in an instant. He stared silently ahead as they rambled along the pier, seeking that wonderful exact point where sea meets sk y, where it all stops or starts; where everything beyond that can simply be invented at will, just as he wants it to be. He had been re - inventing it as far back as he could remember, since the very first time as a boy of three or four, when he had been tak en by his mum and dad to watch the mail boat leave port in the early evening. It had become a daily routine thereafter. Dad would arrive home from work, mum would take off her flowery housecoat, then they would stroll to the bottom of Hague Terrace and w ait on the little wall for the big red and black chimney to glide gradually across that two blued line, to the music of his parent’s laughter. On the way back home they would detour by the bowling green where he would skilfully jump from one of the great g ranite slabs along its border to another; then up the little hill they went hand in hand and home for dinner. Gradually the petulant childish chatter invaded George’s daydream; it grew increasingly demanding and raucous till he had no choice but to drop hi s memories like a ton of gravel on the doorstep of his childhood home and give the brewing tantrum his immediate attention. He tightened his grip on her hand and gently turned her to face him saying “okay, okay we’ll go home, come on we’ll go home then” t he dread of what could come later filling him right up. Home, thought Anna oh goody goody. She couldn’t wait to get there; although she couldn’t really think why. Yes this was a nice man, he seemed kind and he had nice manners. She liked to hold his hand as they walked along but again she wasn’t quite sure why. The sea and sky were exactly where they should be yet something was terribly wrong; Anna just didn’t know what it was. She too had heard the demanding, childish wailing but couldn’t say for sure i f she herself was the culprit. All Anna really knew for certain was that the iron railings along the sea front were black! How could this be? They’re meant to be blue, they were always blue, always had been b lue. Home, home, home, the all - consuming urg e to go home. George allowed his mind to wander back to the scene in the post office that morning when he had bumped into Mrs. Healy. “How’s your mum George? God she’s still a fine looking woman, she was a raving beauty you know, how old is she now? All t hat beautiful curly hair, jet black it was you know, jet black”. How old is she now? How old is she? He wanted to scream at the top of his voice. How the fuck would I know? She was fifty something yesterday, fifteen the day before, on Saturday she was th i rty - three and about to give birth to me! He mumbled a quick “sixty - eight” and made his getaway. How old had she been when it started? How old was he when he had started to notice? Fourteen perhaps, maybe younger. It had begun with small things; coming home to no dinner, the house gradually descending into disarray, at times she no longer looked at him but right through him instead. Then there were the tantrums and constant ramblings into the past. Later came the physical attacks, the breakages, flying missiles all without any warning. Something she seemed to see or hear or feel would start it off; but he and Dad were clueless as to what it was. By the time he was eighteen it was no longer a secret. Shopkeepers, bank tellers, neighbours and at times t he Police would contact him in work to report her whereabouts or activities. Job after job ended in disaster as the demands on him became more and more frequent. His father sat in morose silence when he was there which was less and less frequent; until o ne day he didn’t come back at all. Now where was it? It had to be here somewhere, Anna rummaged frantically through her wardrobe. Her powder blue dress was missing, the one with the little capped sleeves that made her waist look small. Oblivious to Nora ’s pleading Anna continued to chuck every screed of clothing from the wardrobe on to the bed. Again she had that moment of something being wrong and right at the same time. The clock told her it was seven thirty p.m. and William would be here in half an hour to take her to the dance, he always took her dancing on Saturdays. Just as in a dream she had that gnawing feeling of control slipping away to the point where she would be more outside than inside herself. They’re not my clothes she roared surprised at the sound of her own voice and English accent that was much stronger when she was angry. “What have you done with my clothes you bitch? Why do you keep coming here and changing everything?” William would be so upset if she weren’t ready on time. The sudden urge to strangle the bitch overwhelmed Anna and she launched herself over the mish - mash of clothing on the bed, crashing into Nora while her hand darted up to the bitch’s throat “give me back my dress you thieving cow”. There, there, there, that wa s better all that commotion was over, Anna felt exhausted all of a sudden, she lay on the bed and allowed sleep to engulf her. George gazed nonchalantly at the television, his eye drifting to the photo of his mother in a powder blue dress; she couldn’t hav e been more than twenty years old in it. She was small, a little heavy but very shapely and extremely pretty. Her smile much more than a facial expression, it crawled into you like a sip of whiskey from a hip flask on a cold day warming from the middle o ut. “Where the bloody hell is Nora?” He wanted to go to bed. The guilt started to creep around the inside of his skull, looking for any gap that was wide enough to sneak through to his brain. NO , NO , NO , he wouldn’t have it. Hiring Nora to take care of mum mornings and evenings five days a week, had allowed him to remain sane and sober for the last five years. As for his moving into the basement and removing himself from the craziness upstairs, he couldn’t quite put words to that. Distance, room to breath e properly, the ability to put down his weapons of mass self - destruction. He was even starting to lose some weight. “Okay eleven fifteen, where the hell is Nora?” George moved quickly now, panic rising like a tidal wave in the pit of his stomach. He too k the front steps two at a time, key at the ready, he let himself in. The silence was deafening as he tore up the stairs to her bedroom and flung the door open. Anna was sleeping peacefully on the bed, but the state of the room did nothing to calm him. Every drawer and closet was open and bare, the contents strewn from one end of the room to the other. Then he saw her. First only her feet could be seen jutting out from under a pile of sweaters and cardigans, then he saw her bloodied face as he frantica lly threw the clothing left and right. “Oh sweet Jesus; what the fuck had she done now?” Please , please let her be breathing he prayed; “Nora, Nora it’s me George, are you alright? Nora?” As George watched the ambulance disappear down the street; closely followed by his resolve and the years of promises to himself that he would never ever put her in a nursing home, he could already feel his heart and body lighten as the relief washed over him. The time had come, it was no longer a choice to be made or a f rightening thought that got shoved into the attic of his mind; it was here, now and very real; a necessity that just had to be dealt with. Thankfully Nora’s injuries weren’t life threatening, she should be home tomorrow morning. The following afternoon sa w them stroll hand in hand along the pier; George felt no surge of discomfort now, just the healing warmth of his mother’s hand. Anna; his beautiful Anna could always be conjured up at will, laughing and lovely as she sailed her two blued line. Sanctua ry Dan McKenna 3,489 words I awoke to the despe rate beating of a knock at 7am. Unacceptable. Completely fucking unacceptable. There are lads out there just h ome from a 10 hour shift in the factories. 10 stolen hours of pure misery. There are others with an inherent sense of idleness, which is equally deserving of your credence. Some people don’t have the heart for this hour of the morning. The beating continued steadily. A relentless, constant thump. The fucker had stamina anyway. After what seemed like day s trapped within a fugue rage, the thumping of the knock was j oined in equal measure with the flat palmed smack of the hall window. A long single paned narrow window, inst alled by charletons in the late 1970’s. Alright fucking Phil Collins, give it a rest there t’fuck, I’m coming down now For weeks, maybe even months, clawing my way out of bed came with the prom ise of a swift return. I rarely napped, but I could convince myself most mornings that this would be the day. It’s hard to get out of the bed when you’ve nothing you want to do. Things had been pretty frosty and I’d been alone in the house for nearly a week. Having slept in my clothes, I threw on a dressing gown for dramatic effect, indicat ing to the fucking zealot, that someone wa s in bed. The room smelt awful. I thrudded down the stairs, each step a violent declaration of my disconten tment. The futility of man. The morning light hurt my eyes. I always thought there was something strange about it . Not that it was the brightest light of the day but th e whitest light of the day, if that makes any sense. The only reason that anyone could impose themselves on someone like this wa s if they wanted something, and wanted it badly, and they weren’t fucking getting it. There would be no church roof, no raffles won, no sponsored fuckin walks, and no community clean up. Secondly, I won’t move my car, I won’t cut my grass, I won’t clean or move my bins and I won’t listen to any fucker that bangs down my door like a fucking junjung at 7 o ’ clock in the morning. I kick ed the toys at the bottom of the stairs in a sw eeping motion to one side and I opened the door. All of my enmity and planned acrimony were immediately eased by the frayed fig ure of a familiar friend. Stood before me was the Little Lord himself, short of br eath, hair matted and sweat soaking all the way through his floral shirt and yellow tweed jacket. His clothes looked painted on and he was holding a suitcase. What the fuck was all that about? What happened to you? He was struggling to catch his breath and he made his way straight through to the kitchen and helped himself to a glass of water. After taking a few deep glugs and 2 big blasts of Ventolin he relented. Phone’s dead, I’m sorry man, have you not heard from the other fella? I was in the fucking hay man, the nightmares aren’t going to have themselves. I don’t have a clue where he is! Ah fuck he’s caught, they fucking caught him What do you mean they caught him? Who caught him? What’s in your fucking suitcase? What’s going on man? The little lord burie d his head in one hand and took another deep bl ast of Ventolin. He looked very uncomfortable and he couldn’t meet my eye. The suitcase was for cans, he said. This is very fucking bad man. He continued to focus on his breathing and take big glugs of water. I had well and truly been jolted into the day before my time and I put a pot of coffee on. Take your time man and tell me what happened to you. Myself and the other fella were in the lane for most of last night until a massive fight broke out. Between who? Was the Other Fella fighting again? No! Between some fucking Mick or Dave and one of those lane rats that plays the djembe all night in the lane. I fucking hate those lads. Yeah they’re the worst. So Mick or Dave is in the middle of telling some first cla ss fucking zinger to all of his shit mates and all the lane rats start pounding on their Djembes. A few lads were coming up like a bastard a nd they were really laying into the drums. They were so fucked, every moment not spent hitting those drum s seemed to cause them physical pain. So Mick or Dave has the jape of night, maybe the jape of his life absolute ly fucking ruined on him and he see’s red. He runs over to the lane rats and starts screaming at these nut tripping djem befola, calling them a bunch of los ers and then pouring his fucking pint over them. Fuck me, who hurt you Dave? That was just the start of it. They were so fucked they hardly even noticed t his was going. They didn’t stop drumming for a second. Mick or Dave thinks he’s losing his mind so he singles out the Alpha. King Krusty. And he kicks him in the head. Jesus fucking C hrist, was there no bouncer? Nah they can’t afford one mid - week. This got the lane rats attention but a kick in the head is absolutely nothing to one of these fellas. Fuckers have probably been kicked in the head every day of their lives. We both had a good laugh at that. The little lord had caught his breat h and seemed a bit calmer about everything now, which put me at ease. I poured 2 cups of coffee and left h im to sugar his own. I was wide awake now and happy to be up and about and talking to someone. It always took so long to get here in the mornings. It was one of the biggest things I hated about myself. The coffee should kick in within 15 minutes. The little lord doesn’t k now that and his veins are pulsing with big placebo energy after just 2 sups. He’s enjoying telling the story now. So this fella hops up and straight away he’s after blood. Chap thought he was in mortal combat or something. Mick or Dave lands a few early d igs but he wasn’t exactly fighting some pensio ner outside a league of Ireland game. This fella was nuts and out of his mind. I’m not too sure how it happened, but aft er a few minutes King Krustry was bollock naked and charging for your man. Bollock naked i n the lane? Absolutely starkers man. Mick or Dave was afraid to touch him and King Krusty started boxing the fuckin head off him. Why was he afraid to touch him? I dunno man, he probably thought it’d make him fucking gay or something. You know what those l ads are like. That is so Mick or Dave. I realised how dark the kitchen was at this hour of the morning and I opened the curtains in the extension to let some light cut through. This was the worst room in the house. T he little lord was propped up on the ki tchen counter, sitting on the draining board of the sink. It w as the only place with a height advantage that wasn’t covered in crap. He always liked to sit high when he was telling a story. I think he thought it made people listen more. It probably did. He took out a cigarette and put it in his mouth, but he didn’t light it. The guards came eventually and everyone scuppered off, but the naked lad got arrested. He was so fucked that he just stood in the middle of the lane on his own, off his face, covered in s omeone else's blood and staring at the garda car. He was crying when they put him in the back of the car though, poor fucker. There were a few of us around the corner sculling cans at Hasbeen Chic aft er that and then we followed Mr Hollywood up to the Ca nal. Is he living up there? Nah but he was floating around the lane all night, doing his man of the worl d routine. When the bars closed there was a gang of people following him up to the Canal, about 40 of them, so we tagged along. What were you doing? Sta nding on the Paddy Kavanagh statue, reciting poems and singing Dublin ers tunes. People in the Barges were losing their minds and throwing shapes at us. The Dada Brigade reigning middle class terror upon the bargees. What was it George Harrison said about a ll that fucking art music John Lennon was into? Avant Garde a clue. That’s very funny. It is yeah. I knew things were on a fierce downswing when they sang the auld t riangle for the second time and there’s only so much talk about the Matterhorn I can stomac h, so myself and the oth er fella did a little sneak off to Portobello. Who lives in Portobello? The Big Fella has a place there. Well it’s his missus’, but she’s away over in Malta. What’s she doing in Malta without him? Fighting off sexual predators with a bat I’d say. The Big Fellas nerves are shot. We got there around half 3 and things were pretty scorpy already. Lads drinking cans of Hackenberg and sha ring bottles of cooking wine. A few head s in the corner on acid, pissing themselves laughing at a light er. The usu al suspects, real grim shit. At this point in the night it was obvious who had gak in the room because they were like fucking celebrities. Nightmare. Complete nightmare. Myself and the Other Fella steered clear of the bag but the night got prett y weird all the same. It was a small little flat, with one jacks and whatever beak they all had wa s clearly cut with some sort of laxative. Everyone needed to shit basically the entire time. It was all anyone could talk about. Literal shite talk, I said, l aughing even though I didn’t think it was funny. The Litt le Lord laughed as well but you could tell he didn’t mean it and resented my interruption. The sun now pour ed in through both rear windows and the blinding white morning light had gone. I needed to g o myself, said the Little Lord, throwing his hands. However, I lacke d the sense of urgency that the laxative imbued. I was queuing up and talking nonsense with all of these Dave the Rave’s the big fella picked up at the Dice bar. Nobody being too prickish, but a little bit too much peace and love for my tastes. I don’t care how sound you think I am man, just try not to shit yourself. A nameless space cadet had been in the toilet for about 20 minutes. Peopl e were starting to panic and we waited so long that everyone stopped talking. There was so much sphincter centr ic concentration going on, that nobody had the mental capacity for talking nonsense and making plans they’d n ever honour. I started to think to myself that this cunt had fallen asleep and maybe I s hould start banging t he door down. Next thing all we could hear was this chap screaming from the other side of the door. Was he in the horrors? Much worse. The Big Fellas missus has the flat in a bad way. The folks have her living there rent free and she d oesn’t really give a shit about the place. The Big Fella does be a little bit emb arrassed about it and he gutted the place while she was away. He was in bad shape by the time we got there, but he just kept telling anyone who would listen all the things he did to the flat. He was stuck on a bit of a loop. So there's no ventilation in his missus’ jacks, and there's that blotchy, black, pla gue mould all over the skirting and showerside wall. We have the same here, It’s a killer. Well when he was cleaning the j acks he noticed that a full mushroom had spawned out of the mould on the bathroom skirting board. A mushroom? A fucking mushroom. Some lad was screaming because he saw a mushroom? Will you let me tell you what fucking happened. The Big Fella said enough w a s enough and he got the mildew blaster and the strong bleach and he sorted out the mushroom and scrubbed the black mould. Said he g ot sick from looking at the mushroom for too long. Rotten. Why was this lad screaming? The Big Fella only had one sponge left , and he wanted to keep it for the glas ses from the session. This poor screaming lad, ran out of toilet paper and being of poor cognitive ability, reached into the waste bin and wiped his arse with bleach soaked tissue. Fuck off. I swear to you. The lad wa s spooning large clumps of the Big Fellas bleach dir ectly into his arsehole. He was screaming so bad that me and the other fella kicked the door in and Head the Ball had his arse hung over the sink, splashing cold water up it. My jaw opened and locked, mys elf and the Little Lord locked eyes and then broke into an awkward laughter. We laughed too man, we fucking e rupted into laughter out of pure awkwardness. It was surreal. Though there was still no sign of the Other Fella, we were both now reall y enjoying o urselves. You could almost let yourself forget the dramatic subtext to the exchange, but neither of us did. Now seemed like as good a time as any to have a cigarette and the Little Lord dropped the lever on the toaster to light one. Since there was nobody here except the two of us, I had one too, for a treat. Just as I asked who it was that was chasing them, both myself and the Little Lord Jumped with another furious knocking on the door. The Little Lord hopped off the draining board of the sink and his sho es made a great clacking on the checkered lino floor. I’d say that’s him now, I’ll let him tell us the rest. Little fucking soci al welfare knock on him all the same, doesn’t he? Yeah it’s unbelievable. Has me spooked to bits half of the time. I could see t he Other Fella through the glass on the door. Big burst mattress head on hi m, wouldn’t be easy for him to blend into a crowd. He came in, wild eyed, walking straight past me up to the little lord to embrace him. It was like the final scene in Lord of the R ings, only with drugs and bleach and nothing being wrapped up. I returned to the kitchen, now exhausted through my vicarious nature. I asked t he Other Fella what happened to him. Ah jaysus me heart. Myself and Lordy were in the lane last night. Heard all t hat. Lad just shoved bleach up his arse, what happened next? Where the fuck where you until now? The Other Fella took a seat at the kitchen table and I followed suit. The Little Lo rd sat on the table itself. The table was for serious talk. We had to walk h ome from Portobello. They kicked us all out before the buses started becaus e everyone was laughing at your man and The Big Fella’s missus’ door was fucked. It took nea rly 3 hours to get here. We cut across the Dunnes car park and you could smell the bread rolls from the deli very bay. I was Hank Marvin and we both got a goo on us for a chicken fillet roll but we hadn’t a red rex between us. Never stopped you before. Exactly yeah, so myself and himself went in to do the auld whiparoo in the ethnic food aisle. Two years earlier the Other Fella had discovered that there was no CCTV in the ethnic food aisle of Dunnes Stores. If you wanted to avail of any fine produce in times of negative cash flow, this is where you seal the deal. It got to the stage where the ot her fella was saving money on food by robbing 3 chicken fillet rolls a day. If he wanted to make extra money, he’d rob chicken fillet rolls for other people and charge them half the retail price. Walking through the estate became a game of the Other Fella pointing to r andom lads and saying what they get on their rolls. Right well you went into the ethnic food aisle and you stole 2 chicken fillet rolls, then what happened? Ah it all went fuckin tits up man. I’ve been robbing at least one chicken fillet roll every single day from that Dunnes for about 2 years. They must have followed us because of the hack of us. The little lord stood up from his seat on the table and interjected. I was very nervous for some reason and I didn’t really want to do it. My Ma’s ga f f is just around the corner and it’s full of food it just seemed a bit stupid but the other fella was full sure it woul d be ok. When we left the et nic food aisle he turned to me and said ‘relax man, I could walk up and slap that bitch in the face with thi s roll and we still wouldn’t get caught’. The 3 of us had a big laugh at that one. Quotability is very important for a story' s longevity with our shower and it already seems like this story is going to get better with age. The Little Lord continued. We had strolled through a checkout, rolls in our jackets and we said howeya t o the bullet proof aul one. She was half asleep. We were walking past the ATM at the cafe side and we just heard this voice from behind us saying ‘Excuse me’, and this prick just took o ff. He went out and turned left at the trolly bay, I knew he was running towards here . I turned right, arms flailing and ran down the steps into the church ground, screaming sanctuary the enti re time. Then I cut through the gap, crossed the G.A.A field and came straight here. What happened to you? That lad fucking caught me by the neck and dragged me into the back offic e. I knew they couldn’t keep me because it was under a tenner so the guards wouldn’t come. They just wanted t o put the shits up me, draggin g me in there. So what did they say? We were all sitting around the table at this stage. The Oth er Fella sparked up a cigarette and Myself and the Little Lord followed suit. They said that they see us here all the time and that we’re barred for life. Barr ed for life? Yeah, they said me and my stupid mate with the fuckin suitcase are barred for life. Did you at least get the rolls? I tried, but they told me to fuck off. You did not. I did yeah, I just asked if they were going in the bin and they weren’t a b it impressed. Barred from fucking Dunnes lads, I said. Barred from the local shop is low. It’s about as low as it gets. With the Other Fella’s return, a complete calm had washed over the Little Lord. It could have been much worse. I’ve to get my fucking do le in there, he says. Don’t we fucking all. I heard a key turn in the door and I became paralyzed with dread. The house was very bad. There were an additional two bewildered knockabouts in the kitchen. The three of us sat guiltily with a cloud of smoke pre ssing heavily upon us from above. She didn’t say anything and neither could I. I couldn’t meet her eyes. This scen e was not as it appeared. There was a time the Little Lord and the Other Fella could regale her too with their n onsense, but not now. She coul d laugh louder than the three of us combined, but not now. I never looked up and I never made a sound. After the silence there were footsteps in the hall, each striking miniature b lows to my head and stomach. My head spinned and I searched for the words th at could make all of this ok, but they never came. Drowned out by the battle cry of a djembe pounding gutter rat, by drunken ve rses of Shancoduff on the Grand Canal, and by the bleach induced screaming of a sore - arsed stranger that I’d never meet. I didn’t say a word. The door closed and there was a great silence amongst the three of us. I knew I hadn’t long left here. I wished I was still in bed. I went to Dunne’s and I bought 3 chicken fillet rolls. Gurge Bobby Harnett 329 words I don't know what colour my shirt is. I'm not blind or anything like that, I've just become so apathetic that my senses don't seem to register. I go for a walk. Or a run. Maybe a drive with the windows down, I don't know. I think I can smell manure. Maybe it's roses. Can't disce rn. People, they could be, say hi. Or maybe it's the sound of the engine if I'm driving, maybe I'm listening to music or dialogue. Possibly I'm still at home. The lunchtime news comes on at nine. Maybe. Gofuckyourselfgofuckyourselfgofuckyourself gofuckyour selfgofuckyourselfgofuckyourselfis the main story. When was it wasn't? My knees start crying. Or elbows. Or someone else's. I can't unnot hear predictable, cheap carpet beneath "my" feet so where are my shoulders? That's not a question for you, I cannot l ocate them. A paper bag from a chipper moors me somewhat. I know(ish) what that it's not guaranteed. I am. Sorry(ish), but that's not my fault. We might start a band. We might start a family. We might start a war. Maybe all of those things, I don't know who you are. You don't know who I am but that rarely matters. Eat your own knuckles. They will be cooked to your liking and served with chips and gravy. Where are we? The continuous tide. The apparently never ending influx/deluge/flood/fuckstorm/stulsh of more and new and new and more information and sensory flags. I don't know when time is. I can't tell if I'm hungry. I have eaten, once at least, I'm sure. Horology and nourishment; two languages I can hear but not interpret. Am I walking? I might be runni ng in my car. I worry that I've started a war then I stop worrying that I've started a war. They seem to happen without my influence. My bank balance is my most reliable signifier. It knows I have paid for food. I accept this. I think I'm walking. Or run ning. Or driving. With taco chips. Roisin Dubh Sam Noonan - _ - _ - _ - _ - _ - _ - _ - _ - _ - She stood casually in black anger, her old shell clung a little longer, the waves relentless the wind senseless, she steadies her breath takes off the mask, out in the open and in stealth, a journey t o zero, an Róisín dubh in the land of hawks. 22 when she sang a song, a wild child didn't belong, 22 she left her grandmother, her story was good but needed another, packed her bags and left the labels and tags, unsettled in the laws, the land was Lord, she surrendered to the chains and used her sword. She sang drank and hoped for more bird calls, dealt certain cards which left scars, her ancestors ’ workload her poetic spade work, an Roisin Dubh. Solid and white, vast indifferent spaces bri ght, dreamlike empty, spaces for dream entry. Good Time Greg Liam Doyle 2,470 The smile very rarely stays on their face after the brain shuts off, and this was one of those occasions where it did. That must be a comfort to the family. I fitt ed the goggles over his eyes at 6.23pm, fixed him with the serum two minutes later, and he passed away at 6.42pm That’s a solid twenty minutes of absolute pleasure, and a welcome €800 in my pocket. He died with a grin stretched across his wrinkled face, a few of his loved ones standing apart, but together in grief. When his eldest daughter rose up, having buried her head in his chest at the moment of death, she gently lifted the goggles from his eyes, which looked like they’d been smiling too. I’m somewh ere between a clown and a nurse, but I’m paid much better than both. I offer absolute pleasure in your final moments, because a few moments of absolute pleasure are all you can afford. You can’t pay for healthcare, you don’t have the money to bid on a hosp ital bed, but your family can just about scrape together the price of a twenty - minute visit from Good Time Greg. She hands me back the goggles, which are flashing graphically with images of bare - breasted pirate women from a virtual reality where nobody is sick and everyone is swashbuckling. I offer a happy death, not an honourable one, so I take my money and leave them to their grief. If traffic is still bad on the N11, I’ll be late for my 8 o’clock. ’There have been 59 new deaths as a result of pest 1, wi th 452 new cases...’ The car radio hisses intermittently as I steer the Suzuki Swift further and further into a countryside where city transmissions no longer apply. Swathes of ash trees rouged by October flank me on both sides, and the green hills rising an d falling in my window and rear - view are enough to confidently say I’m in the fucking schticks. I don’t understand why anyone would ever choose to live in the city, unless they’re trying to escape some adolescent plight they have in the countryside. Annoyi ng parents, gossiping neighbours, or the wailing quiet. I’d trade my Townie worries with the worries of a culchie any day. The last time someone tried to rob the Chimera 360 from my apartment, I came at them with a hurling stick and nearly painted the t armac with their brains. I gave it loud and large, of course, screaming ‘you little cunts!’ at them, but inside I was shitting myself that they’d return in greater numbers. They didn’t, but there’s still time yet.