I like this woman. I wish that I could remember her name. She remembers mine.
—Dublin's a bit of a dump, isn't it, Tom?
—Please, I say.
And I remember.
—Avril.
—Who the fuck is Avril?
—You are not Avril?
—No, Tim, I'm not Avril.
She sits up.
—But call me whatever you like.
She leans down and whispers into my ear.
—Avril.
I like this woman.
I wake up.
I know where I am, but I am surprised. I slept. This was not my plan. The man with the jeep expects to meet me this morning. But I am here; I am not at home. I look at the curtain. There is strong daylight at its edges. I am not at the department store, at work.
She is beside me, asleep, this woman whose name, I am sure, is almost Avril.
I get out of the bed.
She wakes.
—Get back in here, you.
—Please, I say. —I must go. To work.
—You work nights, she says.
—I have two jobs, I say.
—Poor you, she says.
She notices that I hesitate. She sees me fumble with my shoe-laces.
—Give work a miss, she says.
I would like to do this, very much. I would like to take off my clothes and stay. I would like to touch this woman's warm skin and stay close to it.
But I cannot do this. The man might know where I am. He might be outside, waiting. He is not a patient man.
My laces are tied. I stand up.
—Goodbye, I say. —Thank you.
I open the door.
—Ailbhe, she says.
—That is your name? Ailbhe.
—That's it, she says. —See if you can remember it till tonight.
—I will remember, I say.
—We'll see, she says.
—My bollix.
It rains and, this morning, I do not like it. I am too far away to walk, so I must wait for a bus. I see no jeeps, parked or coming towards me. But I think that I am being watched. I want to move, to run away, but I wait.
The bus is very slow. It is full, so I must stand. I cannot see through the windows because of the condensation. But I do not need to see to know: the bus is not moving. I will be late. I will be late.
I am very late.
The service door behind the department store is locked.
I knock, and wait. I try to hear approaching feet. I knock.
A hand is on my shoulder. A hard hand, grabbing, pushing me to the door.
—The very man.
The door opens as my head hits it. My face falls into the supervisor's jacket.
I get free, and see her face. She is looking at the man and she is angry. She does not seem to be surprised.
—Go away, she says.
—I was just talking to Thomas, he says. —Wasn't I, Thomas?
He looks at me. He smiles.
—Yes, I say.
—He's doing a bit of work for me, he says.
He smiles at her.
—You know yourself. No questions asked. No visas needed.
He winks.
—I told you once, she says. —Go away and leave him alone.
And she stands between me and the man. The door is narrow. I cannot pass her. I do not try.
—And what if I don't? he says. —Will you call the Guards?
He laughs, and winks again.
—No, she says. —I'll do better than that.
He stops laughing.
8
The supervisor stares at the man. He tries to understand her. I can see it in his face: this woman must be taken seriously. And I can see him fight this fact. He would like to hit her. But he is worried. He is no longer sure.
I am ashamed. The woman stands between me and the man – he continues to look at her. And I do not feel safe. For now, he cannot reach me. But she cannot stand in front of me for ever, for more than five minutes. And I do not want her to stand there. I am not a child. I am not a man who will hide behind a woman. Or another man. I will not hide.
—Please, I say. —Please.
I realise now; I understand. I say Please too often. The word is not often understood in this country. I am not weak.
—You must leave me alone, I say.
They look at me, the man and the woman. She turns. He already looks my way. They both look pleased, surprised, uncertain. They wonder: is he talking to me? They had forgotten, perhaps, that I am there.
The man moves. She blocks his path.
Again, I say it.
—You must leave me alone.
She knows. I am talking to her. He knows. I am talking to him. She looks puzzled, then angry. He steps back. He knows that he will get me soon.
—I'm trying to help, she says.
—Yes, I say. —Thank you.
—He's dangerous, she says.
—Yes.
He is dangerous and he is a fool.
—I know his type, she says.
I nod. I also know his type. I have been running from his type for too many years. I will not run now. I will do this myself.
He is a fool because he has not seen me. He has not bothered to look. He sees a man he can frighten and exploit, and he is certain that he can do this. The men who made me fight when I was a boy, they too saw fear and vulnerability. They made me do what they wanted me to do; they made me destroy and kill, for ten years. I am no longer a boy. This man frightens me but I, too, am a man. I know what a hard man is in the language of this city. Tough, ruthless, respected, feared. This man looks at me and sees none of these qualities. He sees nothing. He is a fool.
The supervisor shrugs.
—Sure? she says.
She is a good woman.
—Yes, I say.
Her mobile phone is in her hand. She holds it up.
—I can make a call, she says. —That's all I'd need.
—No, I say. —Thank you.
She shrugs again.
—You know best. I suppose.
—Yes, I say.
She steps aside. He doesn't move. She walks behind me. He doesn't move. She walks away. He doesn't move. He stays in the alley. I am in the department store corridor. The door begins to close. I stop it.
He speaks.
—Come on out here till we have a chat.
I step out. I let go of the door. I hear it close behind me; I hear it click, shut, locked. I do not look back.
—So, he says. —What's the story?
It is not a question. It is not a real question. An answer does not interest him. I see men to my right. They have entered the alley; they were there already. Two men. I have seen them before. They were with him the night he forced me into his Honda jeep. I do not look at these men. I concentrate on the important man.
—So, he says, again.
Still, it still rains.
—You're a bit of a messer, he says. —Aren't you?
—No, I say. —I am not.
He looks at me.
Carefully. For the first time.
Too late.
—Right, he says.
It is as if he shakes himself, as if he has just now woken up.
He must take control.
But I will not be controlled.
I walk away.
I walk. Past his colleagues. They move, prepared to grab, to hit – unsure. I walk. I do not look back.
I will walk away from here. Because I have decided to.
If he shouts I will hear but I will not listen.
If they grab my shoulders I will feel their hands but I will ignore them. I will feel their blows but I will not stop or turn around. I will fall forward and refuse to look.
If he shoots me I will die. I will be gone. He will gain nothing.
He knows this. Now.
He understands.
—Hey! Hey!
I walk away.
9
I w
alk out of the alley. To a narrow street that is always dark. I do not look behind. I do not hurry. I hear no one behind me. I do not think that I am followed.
I am now on Grafton Street. I am not a fool. I do not think that the crowds will bring me safety. If the man wishes to injure me, if he thinks that he must, he will.
I walk.
If he decides to hurt me, or kill me, because I have humiliated him in front of his colleagues, he will wait. He will not do it here. There are too many people, and too many security cameras. If he wants to teach me, and others, a lesson, he might do it here: nowhere is safe – do as we say.
I do not think that he will attack me here. Perhaps he knows: he can teach me nothing.
I am a fit man and I enjoy walking. Just as well – as they say here. I must walk all day.
Fuck that.
I know that I am smiling. It is strange. I did not know that I was going to. It is good. To find the smile, to feel it.
I pass a man who is standing on a crate. He is painted blue and staying very still. When somebody puts money into the bucket in front of him, he moves suddenly. Perhaps I will do that. I will paint myself blue. I will disappear.
—Fuck that.
A man looks at me, and looks away.
I am the blue man who says Fuck that.
I must walk. All this day.
I cannot sit. I cannot stop. I cannot go home. I must be free. I must keep walking.
I walk. Through Temple Bar. Along the river, past tourists and heroin addicts, strangely sitting together. Past the Halfpenny Bridge and O'Connell Bridge. Past the Custom House and the statues of the starving Irish people. I walk to the Point Depot. Across the bridge – the rain has stopped, the clouds are low – I walk past the toll booths, to Sandymount. No cars slow down, no car door slams behind me. I am alone.
I walk on the wet sand. I see men in the distance, digging holes in the sand. They dig for worms, I think. They look as if they stand on the sea. It is very beautiful here. The ocean, the low mountains, the wind.
It is becoming dark when I cross the tracks at the station called Sydney Parade.
I will go to work. I will not let them stop me. I will go to work. I will buy a bicycle. I will buy a mobile phone. I am staying. I will not paint myself blue. I will not disappear.
It is dark now. It is dangerous. Cars approach, and pass.
I walk the distance to Temple Bar. I walk through crowds and along parts of the streets that are empty. I pass men alone and women in laughing groups.
I am, again, on Grafton Street, where my wandering started this morning. I walk past the blue man. It seems that he has not moved.
I arrive at Temple Bar. A drunk man steps into my way. His friends are behind him. His shoulder brushes mine.
—Sorry, bud.
I make sure that there is no strong contact. I walk through his friends. I do not step off the pavement. I do not increase my pace.
I reach the restaurant at the same time as Kevin. I wait, as he locks his bicycle.
—Did you get a good night's sleep last night? he says.
I understand. This is called slagging.
—Yes, I say. —Thank you.
—Does she snore? he asks.
I surprise myself.
—Only time will tell, I say.
He laughs. I also laugh. I know now what I must do, where I must go. But, first, there is something that I must know.
—Please, I say. —Kevin.
It is later. The restaurant is closed. I cycle Kevin's bicycle; it is mine for tonight.
I remember her corner. I remember her house.
I ring the bell. I wait.
I look behind me. No jeep, no waiting men.
I hear the door. I turn. She is there.
—Well, she says.
—Good evening.
—So, she says. —Do you remember my name?
—Yes, I say.
Kevin told me. I wrote it on my sleeve.
—Yes, I say. —Your name is Ailbhe.
—Ten out of ten, she says. —Enter.
—Please, I say.
I look at the street. I look at her.
—I might be in danger, I say.
—I like the sound of that, she says. —Come in.
Roddy Doyle, The Deportees
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