1

Joe

The bells of the church tower ring as I walk through the gates. It’s warm out here, bright, noisy, full of people. The cars are lashing up and down the North Circular, heading for all the places people can go when they’re not banged up. When it’s safe, I cross to Berkeley Road and walk towards the cream-coloured box. I have to call the ma. Two pence in the slot. The house phone rings.

‘Hello? Who’s that? I can’t hear you,’ she answers.

I’ve forgotten how to use the thing. Press button A, for fuck’s sake. The phone in the ’Joy’s been broken for months.

‘It’s me, Ma. I’m out. On the street. Early release.’

‘Joe, merciful hour. Are you alright? Are you coming home for tea? When did they let you go? And your sister about to drop.’

‘I’m fine, Ma. Where is she?’

‘Holles Street and due any minute.’

‘I’ll surprise her before I come home.’

‘She’ll like that and I’ll have some steak for you, love.’

Crossing Dorset Street, I look up at the huge Guinness ad with the couple lying in flowers. I’m tempted to drop in somewhere for a pint, but it’s too early. Besides, I can’t go into the hospital smelling of gargle. Tricia wouldn’t like that with her first baby on its way into the world. I pass the Garden of Remembrance on Parnell Square. Pity she’s not in the Rotunda just around the corner. Where all the northsiders are born. I could see her there and still grab a pint or two before heading home.

There’s no fucking buses. A few are parked up, empty, but none are moving. The busmen are on strike. Bus stops with no queues, on a Friday! Jesus, I’ll just have to leg it to Holles Street.

Crossing into O’Connell Street, I pass Tom Clarke’s old tobacco shop under the shadow of Parnell. A kid is pumping petrol into a grey Morris Minor at the garage in Parnell Street. Brown hair, early teens. Cars, double-parked, all shades and sizes, a guard directing traffic, a woman pushing a pram, fucking gorgeous. I spot my da’s car pulling up at the garage, his olive-green Hillman. Then a tall, fair-haired man gets out. Mid-forties. Not my da. Northern reg: DIA. Didn’t cop that. Anyway, Da’s likely on the high stool in Nolans by now. First pint, browning black, and a chaser. Old bollox never came to visit me once. No mercy for the sinner.

I pick up speed down O’Connell Street.Blazing Saddles is on in the Savoy, Forte’s is packed with people eating ice cream, there’s a smell of cooking oil. I’d mill a bag of chips. No, Ma’s steak is what I need. The Clery’s clock says ten past five. Crowds are heading down Talbot Street for the trains, the paper boy says there’s no end to the bus strike.

‘Hurdle and Pressed – No buses for Dubs this weekend,’ he shouts. Over the bridge. I wonder who’s in the Palace Bar as I get the whiff of coffee from Bewley’s.

I pass the imposing gates of Trinity College and follow its wall around to Nassau Street. There’s a smell of freshly mown grass. Across the street, I notice a bunch of flowers outside a shop. Tricia will like them. I head over. A girl with blonde hair wearing a light yellow coat over a short skirt walks out as I enter the newsagent. She drops her pack of ten Carrolls into a small red handbag. Beautiful. About my age. She returns my gaping look with a shy smile and heads up the street, towards Merrion Square. I pay for the lilacs and tulips wrapped in coloured paper. Outside, I see her up the street, crossing towards the college wall.

Two big cracks erupt like thunder from the city centre.

Another almighty bang, much closer, and a ball of smoke. The ground shakes. I tumble onto the street, dropping the flowers and my kitbag on the footpath as I fall. Then, silence. People are shouting, pointing. Flames and smoke are rising from a car not far down the road. I pick myself up and run. I approach the burning blue car. Beside it is the girl in yellow, her leg almost torn away, her blonde hair covered in blood as she lies on the footpath, still gripping her red handbag. Pure terror in her p