I had access to 800 Euros. The brother offered a thousand, which I refused. It included his mortgage payment, which was due in ten days. “You’ll get it back to me by then.” In London I had access to a few hundred and my overdraft. I accepted the brother’s loan with many promises of swift repayment. I knew he raveled in this. He was de-sullying his family reputation through my situation.

He rings in sick to work as we drive to Dun Laoghaire. The main street has been pedestrianised and cobbled. Café tables spill into the streets, leaned on by latte-drinkers. He passes me the money outside the Bank of Ireland, “I only have eight fifty there. I’m sure there should have been a grand. Feel free to count it.” We have to wait for Joe’s call. We have a tea in the old Keylmore café. I was not in the mood for cakes or a full Irish breakfast. A heavily set old lady, scarf around her head, smokes one roll-up after another. She stares through the shop front into her memories. My phone rings.

“Alrigh?” Said Joe, “how are ya fixed for five?” It was the puppy-salesman voice again, I wondered who was in earshot. I said that I had most, but not all, of the money. “Killiney Hill, by the Witch’s Hat? Soundo.” We parked at the bottom of the hill. I was adamant about going up alone. “Rod, I just wanna say…ya know.”
“I know. It’s going to be fine. Thanks again for your help.” I leave the car aware of the shortfall in the money, (‘anything less would guarantee an unsavory outcome’). Then there’s the remote choice of venue - I push away shallow grave thoughts. I walk oblivious to the brambles, rock and elevation above the expanding city. I pause at the top of the hill to see the sea. From the bulk of Brey I pan left to the beach directly below me. It seems a model of the stony surface I’d paced and sat on earlier. I watch a dog attack the waves and can just hear its bark. On the left, the tail of Dalkey Island is hidden by Millionaires' Row. Neil Jordan and DeNiro are neighbours there. The sky is filling with off-white clouds.

The “Witches Hat” is an obelisk erected by Queen Victoria as a famine relief project. It’s basically an upside-down ice cream cone on top of a rectangle with benches around the bottom. Joe’s sitting on the bench facing the city. His eyes are closed; in sleep or contemplation I can’t tell. I give a gentle cough. “Let’s walk Roderick”, he says before opening his eyes. We follow one of the paths into the forest until the sky peaks through leafy branches. Joe carries a small kit bag. I wonder if it contains my fate. “So how did you perform relative to our expectations?”
“Not as well as I’d hoped,” I say handing the money over. “There’s 1650 there. That’s all I could raise or borrow.” I know by his silence that this is insufficient. “I’ll be able to send the balance when I get back to London.” Joe stares at the money like it contained further explanation. “You have seven days. With luck this...” he holds up the cash before putting it into the bag, “...should satisfy my colleagues.” His hand remains in the bag. He begins pulling someone out.
- This is it.
I'm curious rather than afraid. He pulls out a laptop computer. He sits on the low wall that delimits the steps. I watch in curiosity as he produces a cable and portable printer.

“I’m printing a receipt but I don’t have a 12A form– they’re changing the format – you’ll need to complete one given the situation.” I stand with mouth agape. “While that’s printing let me show you this…” I sit beside Joe and look at two colour-coded pie charts. “The chart on the left indicates the costs you’ve incurred. The one on the right shows our standard approach. You contact us with your problem and we give you a free estimate. See the substantial savings to be availed of with our option. Then there’s the stress and physical injuries,“ he touches my bandaged hand with his little finger, “those simply can’t be quantified in monetary terms.” He makes empathetic eye contact and waits for this point to sink in. “We could have delivered your message, guaranteed success and provided a tailored security package for your mother. Here we are.” The mechanical whining has stopped, Joe passes me the official receipt. “I’ll need to get your address. There will be a standard late payment fee of 70 Euro.”

I examine the document. “You’re very organised.”
“We live in a time of change. Our organisation is a recognised global entity. Our challenge is to leverage that. As our primary function has been suspended, if not entirely ceased, we’re undergoing a re-branding exercise. Security services are an obvious and lucrative opportunity sector but who knows where we’ll be in twenty years? In order to achieve this transformation, management have recognised our need to modernise and streamline. Me must embrace change and technology. I, for one, think it can’t come too soon.” The left side of my field of vision begins to fuzz over again. “I have a question.” He nods, eye closing for moment. “Can Clark be told to say away from my mother’s house?” Joe’s head leans to the left, his eyebrows rise.
“Strictly speaking that’s a separate service. However I respect your desire for maternal security and I’d be delighted to facilitate your peace of mind. I’ll have the conversation personally. Believe me, there will be no possibility of Mr. Clark disturbing your mother again.”
“Thank you for that.” There are now signatures, restatement of deadlines and a swift handshake. Joe leaves me sitting in the concrete-capped wall to hear the bird song and become aware of the descending cold.


*

“It’s gonna be alright now,” I’d said, “you don’t have to worry.” My mother, sat like a little girl. She shivered. “Very serious people are making sure that he won’t come back again.” How could she understand? How could she hear the words, ‘don’t worry.’ To her, daily life transactions are rearing monsters threatening to goggle her up.
-That’s the cat callin’ the dog hairy-arse.
I could see that my wounds terrified her. I used a soothing tone, spoke softly to her. We hugged and she cried wobbling sobs. The brother apologised – he couldn’t run me to the airport. I got the bus at the end of the green. She stood in the living room window smiling through tears. Every time I looked back she was there, standing in the window, waving.

*

He’s watching the pint. Don’t let the bleached hair and nose ring fool you. This young lad takes craftsman’s pains in producing his work. He eyes the glass, waiting on the optimum point of settlement when the next section can be pulled. “Last one before you’re off?” He asks me.
“Ya know yourself.”
“Well, I’ll give ya the best pint in the airport.” I give a small bow to acknowledge his commitment. Mum’s as consoled as she can be. The marks on my face hardly show now. The fresh bandage on my hand is more discrete.

This bar is new. They used all the sleek ingredients – chrome, glass and black leather – but it didn’t come off. The place is a barn, too large to be sophisticated. Black-bloused waitresses walk the large rectangle space feeding families (and look how many kids they all have – the Celtic Rabbit’s going strong and not using contraceptives). Children stick faces against the glass wall that overlooks the runway. Two planes are being gorged with luggage and catering carts. The left side of my neck has fused and frozen. I’m sitting at the bar, too distracted to read. I’m running through my speech to my wife (again). I speculate about her reaction.

I feel warmth for the barman. He could be in a boy band yet I don’t resent his youth and good looks. There’s a depth to this young man. He’s keen, easily warm in his greeting and confidence in speech. But look at the concentration, the devotion, that he places in the pulling of a pint. “You wanna see how they throw it in the glass over the water,” I offer.
“It would bring tears to the eyes of a spud.” I nod in agreement.
“Spuds and Guinness…” The speaker takes a seat beside me – his glass, Marlboroughs and jacket already mark his bar territory. “Andrew, you’re speaking like a national stereotype. Next you’ll be singing about how you love your aul mammy. Stick us on another one there.” I give a closed-lip smile that forms a straight line (to indicate polite acknowledgement and weariness of further interaction). I realise I know the man but I can’t place him. He nods and I hear myself say, “howya Gabriel.”

“I’m in all ways satisfactory,” he replies, “more power to you,” he takes a gulp of stout. I try to locate where I know him from – the association is long-standing but not intimate. “It’s a fine day to be changing countries, though I generally feel the air’s best left to birds and greenhouse gases. What do you think Andrew?”
“I think,” says the barman, his eyes fixed on the pint he’s pulling, “that a change is as good as a rest.”
“A fine sentiment.” Then turning to me, “they’re raising them clever here these days. The best barman in the airport,” he fingers towards Andrew, “bar none.” He lights a Marlborough and silence exists while Andrew finishes my pint. I still haven’t placed the man but I’ve eliminated a number of life areas – I don’t know him from work, where I grew up and he’s not connected with my education.

Dyed dark hair hangs in a regal manner around his face. It’s a face that was chiseled and crafted from pain and experience. His eyes are turquoise – the colour dominating the entire pupil. There’s something unhealthy in the colouring – he appears sanctified before death – like when a dog’s eyes gloss over with distemper. “Powerful,” he says after the pint is placed before him, his hushed tone reflecting the majesty of the phenomenon. We watch the tiny white entities elevate, defying gravity, while the black reaches peaceful equilibrium. “Inspiring,” he says as the settling phase completes. And then with a raise of his glass, “more luck to you.” I take a risk with my response: “fuck the begruders.”
“Fuck the begruders indeed!” We both drink healthy gulps and wipe away creamy mustaches. “There was eatin’ and drinkin’ on that toast.” He looks at me and a synapse suddenly sparks internally – I know who he is. “Were it not for the begruders and the lack of work, this island would be heavily over-populated.” He is the actor Gabriel Byrne. I become conscious of what I’m saying, I want to be witty and impressive. His mobile on the counter vibrates but he makes no move to check it.

“So,” I begin, inserting a pause to sound relaxed, “what’s the most interesting thought you’ve had today?” He turns his head rapidly -it looks just like a scene in a movie – look at the intensity in his face! “My most interesting cognition of the day? Jaysus, that’s a corker.” Several seconds pass before he continues. “I was thinking earlier about locksmiths, but there was nothing concrete there. I thought about the nature of money and wondered if there’d be a day when we’ll be rid of it. I didn’t get too far with that one, probably because I’d no pint in front of me at the time. I thought about Dublin – how it’s great to be from here but great to be away as well - ya know what I mean – like yourself I just come back to brush up on the accent.“ I smile, he continues. “I thought about an exquisite Spanish wine I drank years ago with a vintage French countess. I touched on the subject surrounding the word gallant. You wouldn’t know the origin of that particular lexeme?” I shake head for no. “Interesting…but the most interesting thought I had today…Jaysus.” He stubs out his cigarette. “Was relating to Tara Doyle. I’m not saying it was the most interesting thought beyond the boundaries of my own identity. But to me it was interesting.”
“If you don’t mind my asking, who’s Tara Doyle?”
“When I was nine, Tara let me finger her in the Roxy cinema in return for a Orange Maid ice lolly. I blew me load the moment I felt it’s warmth. I told me ma the stain was ice cream – I was wearing me communion suit on account of it being Sunday.” He closes his eyes, lost in contemplation. I begin to feel like I’m intruding.

I take another gulp and consider making a roll-up. “But no man asks such a question unless he wants to be asked it in return. What were the nature of your ponderances today? Were you considering the nature of creation, some moral problem or matters political?”
“I’m afraid not. Actually, I didn’t want you to ask me the question back. Normally I would, but today I’m a bit…preoccupied.”
“Well, relationships are as complicated as they are rewarding.“ In a moment of eye contact the following are exchanged:
I’m impressed at his guess of what’s preoccupying me
He sees this
I try to hide the fact that I’m impressed
He sees this
I see empathy for the pain I’m in

I break eye contact. “That’s a true statement,” I say.
“It’s often better to go with the flow and act out of the love that’s hidden beneath the resentment. But each to his own as the fella says,” his hands are raised in resignation, palms facing me for his disclaimer (I see a similarity to the Jesus in my Granny’s scared heart picture). I sit there, digesting. He begins stroking, no, caressing his cheek with the outside of his right hand. He continues this action, eyes closed for an uncomfortable period. I check the clock - my flight’s boarding in five minutes. I drink my pint to within a mouthful.

“I’d love to continue this conversation,” I say, “but I’m afraid that time, tide or international flight wait for no man.”
“Indeed,“ he says, eyes still closed, hand still gliding along cheek, “I wish you luck and a warm welcome at your destination. I hope they’re worth the pondering.”
“They are Gabriel, they are.”

*

Eleven hours later, in deepest nighttime:

Sofia, my baby daughter, is in great pain. She has drunk her bottle but the pain of teeth cutting through gums hasn’t abated. She’s writhing, sitting up, pulling at her ears. I lift her and begin walking to and fro. She usually falls asleep after fifteen minutes or so.
- If herself comes in you’ll be in shit for taking baby out of her cot…
- She wasn’t going to sleep, what else could I have done?
- Well, there ya go. It’s the aul double bind again. ‘Use your own initiative’ one minute and the next it’s ‘what did you do that for?’ I trust you to decide, but if you do I’ll slag off your decision…
Sofia jerks about. I guide her head to my shoulder and her breaths deepen. I touch her cheek.
- Back to work tomorrow…
- Not now, I don’t want to wake up fully.
- She’s twitching…

Sofia’s hand opens and closes. She smiles in her disturbed slumber. I feel her breath grow hollow.
- You’ll have to get herself soon. You’ll be wrecked going back to work …
- What did I say about mentioning work? I don’t want to think about it. I don’t want to listen to you. Fuck you and your italics! Just leave me alone.
- Well that’s nice…