Over the Ha'penny Bridge, headed for Henry Street. Half four. Thinking of the films I'd seen, formulating sentences in my mind for the reviews I'd write later. Focus on Trim. Wasn't getting paid but any excuse to get up to Dublin and see a few films every week. The Winding Stair? No, Chapters will be easier to navigate.
I'm drawn out of my musings by two strangers acting like they're not strangers. My arms are linked, like a chorus line. Like a propped-up drunk.
- If yeh know what's good for yeh, yeh'll stay quiet. See tha'? His eyes draw mine to his right hand, which cups a syringe. The accent was one I was familiar with through Fair City and radio call-in programmes.
- Do what I say or I'll pump you full of aids. We're just walking somewhere quiet – best buds, righ'? Right. I play my part, try to smile. Probably not aids, but better safe than sorry. I don't know where I am. Amazing that the city can be deserted so close to bustling streets.
- Give us your wallet, he says. I hand it over. A childish Velcro thing. He rummages, takes my twenty quid. I tell him it's all I have. He takes out the ATM card – empty, I swear. His friend has noticed the social welfare card.
- Come on, he says. He's on the dole, same as us. The more aggressive one wants to march me to an ATM machine but eventually he's convinced the trek would be futile. They hustle away, warning me to remain where I am for a minute or two.
- Okay, thanks. Why do I thank them? Any excuse for self pity, like how I'm grateful when Da's beatings leave bruises. I won't tell anyone about today. Ma would try to convince us that I brought it on myself. That time a few months ago when I was ambushed in Patrick's Park.
- You had to have done something. Jesus.
Later, I find a fiver in my back pocket and head for Bus Aras, triumphant.
