“Speed Your Love, Tooooo... Me."

Outside sooty doors, shivering wrecks huddled together, thirstily sucking on their cancer sticks -Well at least they make up some kind of community mused Roy, and isn’t it what we all aspire to? To belong, to feel part, something bigger and stronger than us. To have peers. To be able to relax in the assurance of mutual support. He wouldn’t have been surprised to hear that some people only take up smoking for the feeling of communion and the opportunity to gang up.
Partaking in cancer sticks allowed you to strike up conversations with complete strangers see, and share in the thrill of danger. Who knows, you may even get to enjoy the damn thing after a while. (Highly doubtful that, but.)
Almost inevitably, the smoking ban had had unintended side-effects and inspired new bonds of defiance, it created a new class of outcasts and self-appointed rebels. Office workers, pickled philosophers, femmes fatales, life casualties with no flicker left in their eyes, teenagers desperately trying to look cool, Poles come to take jobs away from our Chinese, everybody was equal under the new Law and the unforgiving elements. The rain came down like a punishment, clouds had taken up residency a few yards above the cathedral belltower.
Proud women in faded scarves and bulging bags ignored the reprobates, hurrying about from one cleaning job to the next. Female Gardai idled by, flanked by their six-foot+ Gaelic speaking colleagues (both features a legal requirement).

The taxi was stuttering its way through the town’s central artery: stop start, stop start, cue more cursing from the lost soul behind the wheel.

"Traffic’s not too bad this time of day although we could do with a spot of sunshine, ‘know what I mean?Me brother went to Galway for the weekend, got a pike this big!"

Slavic shaven-headed tubs of lard in tuxedoes patrolled the high street, sending urgent messages into their cufflinks: the local drunks would not be tolerated, repeat, not tolerated, they would have to be corralled away from the tourists and double-quick –Roger that. The capital had to be kept presentable and safe to wander about, a carefree spot of Shopping Opportunities. Honourable visitors didn’t make the trip here to be subjected to strife and squalor did they? Facades were constantly erected in any available back-street. Off-colour natives got shoved behind, instructed not to make a sound or else. Keep Ireland tidy people, keep it on-song and welcoming.

Roy made a note of the absence of CCTV at every corner. CCTV culture - the plague of modern Britain. You couldn't scratch your arse these days without being recorded by an Asian shop-keeper to send to "You've Been Framed" with Lisa Reily (a United fan herself, incidentally), “Best Of Closing Time Fights” sold for a Fiver, lovingly compiled from YouTube footage. Yes, in that respect Ireland was still more convivial than its neighbour, less suspicious. (Not taking part in invading foreign countries helped too.)

"They come here and get free accommodation but what about our own homeless, you know? It's alright for some but let me ask you, at the end of the day who's footing the bill huh? Who’s paying? That's right, we are. We are the ones who’s paying! My boy was watching the match last night and all you could hear on the telly was bad language from these millionaires, bad language and giving it large to the Ref’. Isn’t that shocking though? I’m all for forgive and forget but you have to draw the line sometime, right? With me, what you see is what you get! Does what it says on the tin!"

Fat Americans in shorts and video equipment were busy retracing the footsteps of their fellow American tourists. Freezing fluorescent Nigerians were racing between cars at red lights in a vain attempt to sell "The Herald" to non buyers. If he started thinking about it, he would never feel comfortable in his own skin again. "And what’d happen if it was us huh? Take these breath-tests for example. Have you ever seen a cyclist get tested? Have you? ...I rest me case. Then again, horses for courses, live and let die ah what do I know -I don't dabble meself but if you're looking for some, pal, huh, I may just know someone who knows someone..."

Hidden behind a pair of funky shades, Roy was distracted by strange light patterns dancing on the grimy Plexiglas partition. The sun’s reflection was bouncing on the driver's wrist-watch. It went up and down, up and down, flashing as your man imparted immortal truths that could only be gained through long years of “Talk To Joe” whine-fests.
The cabbie was having none of (whatever it was) and instead expanded on the importance of (this, that and the other) in this day-n-age. "You take cells: we start dying the moment we’re born! And the beauty of it, the beauty of it is, you can write it off as a tax-loss! Take that, Cromwell! Not that I object to it meself, mind; it doesn't affect me in the slightest no, but I fear for others of a more... sensitive nature shall we say, those less educated maybe, or simply more impressionable, they may not be able to grasp the irony, ‘know what I mean?"
Yes.
Yes Roy knew what he meant, yes he was with him. He could feel the pain of the entire world (now probably more than ever). His head was throbbing and his sixth sense-o-meter hyperventilating, but he also knew that he couldn’t blow his cover. You can never let your guard down. People are headlines waiting to happen. Give them half a chance and they’ll jump on your flaws, seize on your secrets. They’ll deride your weaknesses, trivialize your sufferings, market your creations and finally sell your story to the Sunday rags like Princess Di never died. People eh… People will betray your confidence when you’re at your most vulnerable, they’ll have a ball when you turn your back, they, they -they’ll choose a rock-hard pitch with no training kit or spare balls to practice on. And still you play along. Still you must learn to make allowances. You must get on with it and grow a skin the size of a rhino.

"Hers indoors tells me they never wash, who am I to believe? A bleeding heart Minister who's never done a hard day's work in his life or a honest working-class housewife? I asks you. Now I'm not saying Adams is right, but"

Roy shot a look at the purchase he had made on a hunch after leaving the café. It nestled inside his jacket almost perfectly, beating against his ribs at every corner. Thump, thump, thump. Spotting the joint had been a stroke of good luck and Roy commended himself on his perspicacity. “The Secret Bookshop” it called itself and -he’d be ready to lay a donkey on it- many must have been the ones who walked right past without noticing its flyers wallpapered entrance. Hiding in plain sight, it was. A double-bluff wrapped up in a red herring. Roy turned away from the driver’s prying eyes and delicately unsheathed the thing from its wrapping paper. Sun Tzu “The Art of War”.
If he had to play on / it clever / them at their own game, he might as well seek knowledge from The Man Himself, he reckoned. The master in person.
Roy flicked through the pages and entrusted his fate to Brian Eno’s Zen inspired oblique theories: he let his index fall on one paragraph at random. “Pretend inferiority and encourage his arrogance, all warfare is based on deception and he who conquers steady as the mountain will build a golden bridge quiet as the forest for retreating swift as the wind.” …Wise words indeed. Sometimes, there is no place for full-on assault, “Route One” has had its chips (cf. the Engerland XI at every tournament bar one).
Roy frowned and read the lines again. “Pretend inferiority and encourage his arrogance, all warfare is based on deception and he who conquers steady as the mountain will build a golden bridge quiet as the forest for retreating swift as the wind.” What better way to grow spiritually than to borrow a page from the depths of ages! “To know your enemy, you must become your enemy.” “Wax on, wax off. Wax on, wax off.” Ah yes, it was all starting to make sense now, the game was on and two can play that –er- game he reckoned. If malicious miscreants expected him to set his stalls early and commit himself bareback, they were in for a surprise! He’d sell them a puppy, that’s what he’d do. He’d give them the eyebrows and show them a lollipop, then when they’d least expect it: Bang! Bring the pain, it would be time for the cavalry! Game of two halves mate, fire in the hole! He’d take them up the garden path and totally drop the Spanish Prisoner on them feet first before they had time to say “Holy shite! I can’t wait to watch the sports results with Jo-Anne Cantwell tonight, can you?” Boom! Game over. This cunning scheme has been terminated gentlemen and you’re it! ...
This ought to do the trick, Roy concluded. But first he needed to make sure that
“Here we are, pal, that’s the place” intervened the cabbie.      
   
The object of his primary concern loomed ahead and Roy fully re-engaged with the world. There it was, the Chinaman! The traditional center of urban life and apex of British / Irish culture down the centuries, the pub had always oozed danger and excitement in equal measures but this time was different. This time this particular watering hole had a part to play, the importance of which Roy was about to find out for himself shortly!

The Pub (envoi!)

The pub fills up with plump Nike wearers, refugees from the venue next door. It's turning into a fat farm here, it's running the danger of tilting to one side and the staff can't cope, they have to rush to the opposite wall to restore balance.
The girls put on airs and make-up; they check their teeth for residues of carrot and spinach and remember they only had chips for tea. They strut their stuff like they own the world, little realising that they do. They scan every inch of every available mirror for dreaded imperfections, pinch their cheeks, flatten their curls and then nip outside in the raging rain and whirling wind for a fag. They mill round, split, congregate, waltz by, pair up, parade, link arms, retrace their steps, nudge each other and generally swan about, all the while pretending not to know what the boys are talking about. The boys are talking about them. There has never been a more worthwhile subject under the sun but nobody wants to admit it.
The boys are engaged in what they see as a mind-game, mumbling behind their hands and sniggering into their pints. They think they are so clever. What they’re also playing at is trying to get their mates legless so that they can bullshit them later: hear them come up the next day with high tales that can never be disproved (“I can’t believe you don’t remember”). They pretend to lose track of whose turn it is to buy a round. They never let their mates have the last word. They squint towards the girls. They slap each other’s back, desperate for physical contact -any contact.
Your man stands in the middle, counting the points.

An experienced barman, he is fully aware of the evening's inflexible schedule and keeps a baseball bat at the ready. He braces himself. Meanwhile, the jukebox promises that love is in the air and that everyone will be cherished forever and ever –or maybe just for the one night. All the audience have to do is take their chance, make their dream come true, and dance all night till the morning light. Simple enough he should think, but do the eejits ever learn? Do they feck. They’re too busy showing off to listen. They think they know better. Everybody thinks they know better, mind.

Your man has pretty much seen it all by now. He’s witnessed a thousand break-ups and can read the signs for miles, he’s spotted pervs by the taxiload and can smell trouble before it fully forms, he’s defused fights before their participants even raised their voices. Body language, see. Posture and side glances. Suddenly sweaty upper lips. He’s also witnessed the birth of many a Saturday night romance through the mere order of a “Frog’s Legs for this young lady, my good man”. He’s developed a sixth sense for the gauche and the timid, the virgins and the closet cases. If only they knew how transparent they are!
Don’t deceive yourselves girls, you will be strictly talked to by level of attractiveness; you will instantly learn your place in the pecking order and count your blessings if you know what’s good for you. These prowling clouds of aftershave big themselves up with rolled-up sleeves but underneath they’re all the same. They’re as frightened as you are. You might as well play dumb and double-bluff them. Catch them at their pressure point: prey on their vanity.
And so the comedy of life goes on, pretty much as it ever did. The lasses walk around “accidentally” revealing their underwear and the gym bunnies wear t-shirts one size too small. A thought bubble rose from behind the pillars: "Looking after the others' handbags is what I do best”.
There is no clock in a pub, it’s like a casino, a shopping mall. Toilet mirrors may get polished once in a blue moon but at least the condom dispenser offers a welcome variety of flavours: strawberry, banana, chocolate, vinegar –strawberry is the winner. Tea-bags stuck to the ceiling, tea-bags in the urinals. You are advised to ignore the menu card entirely (nobody goes down the pub to eat). Just parade in, crawl out later.

Noel was having a rotten day. Innocent eyes wouldn’t have spotted anything out of kilter but his long experience behind the bar had taught him well. Trouble was on its way. It was around the corner and he could smell it stronger than a smoked mackerel factory. Marco the Greek was due to come in before the week was over to pick up his airborne delivery announced for today and Tony the Corsican had been spotted drinking nearby, Tubby “the Cleaner” hadn’t reported for duty since his trip to the Northern provinces, the men’s toilets were overflowing again, and the Missus was on his case re. his promise of Caribbean holidays -None of these augured well for his ulcer.
With Noel his head doorman feeling poorly and Noel his back-up goon in hospital, Noel was feeling a bit vulnerable. He only had one pair of eyes to keep on everything.
At least the back-room was busy so that was a start. Turning up the jukebox kept the going-ons there reasonably hidden. No-one needed to know if they hadn’t been recommended by Moira aka “Mother Superior”. As for the front saloon-styled lounge, it only contained the usual collection of seasoned shouldas-wouldas so that was grand. Nothing to fear on that front. The old fecks there sat in silence, too bitter to even try to bullshit each other of their greatness. They all knew precisely how insignificant they were. They just rang the bell every ten minutes for more ammunition and left him in peace. ...Noel thoroughly approved of the old codgers.

No, what profoundly unnerved Noel was this new character. Your man had turned up on the dot and there was something about him… it just didn’t feel right. His behaviour felt wrong, his demeanour over-studied. Surely no man cared enough about horse racing to spend the whole day perusing the paper? Noel recalled how Charlotte the Harlot had taken one look at him -one look- and had walked right on. She hadn’t even tried it on for a spare fag, surely that meant something! Nah, Noel was pretty sure he had seen this queer fish somewhere… These exaggeratedly slow movements, this stiff back (was he packing?) and -most unnerving of all- these almost undetectable glances at the door (Noel had detected them), he was sure he had seen them in someone else’s eyes.
With a shudder, Noel remembered. Holy fucks! Why of course… Noel tried to expunge a scene from his memories. Didn’t succeed.
 ... A bag of cement, a jungle of heavy chains and a trip to the Liffey on a moonless night.

Added to that character was the question of his new fan-club. For some reason, a bunch of longhairs had recently taken up residence in his pub and turned up every night to sip foreign beer and cause trouble. Why, only last week one of them ne’er-do-wells had made a scene after one of the regulars had straightened out a dame that had been too cute with her mouth for her own good. Just who did these hippies think they were! Mother Teresa??
The veteran barman almost suspected the devious hand of the government behind this mascarade. Had they been infiltrated to spy on his joint? Were they studying his business venture(s) before squeezing him out? Why were they taking portraits of themselves on their mobile phones? Ever since The General had been knocked off by a well-tipped assailant that the Force in its entirety had never been able to identify (let alone arrest), the town had been rife with all sorts of rumours, each one more unpleasant than the other. Nobody sat with their back to any door or window, “pizza delivery” boys went missing. Something was going down for real, and it wasn’t just Norwich City.

Roy entered the dragon's den, squinted. In the neon dusk, ill-defined shapes lay slumped on tables, nursing their pints and deflated ambitions. Growls emanated from a dark corner. A queue had formed in front of the plate of complimentary peanuts. The general mood was one of resigned acquiescence, moderate alcohol intake, brooding limbo with sudden showers of puke predicted for the pavement later on.

Hugging the bar, a hirsute character dressed in black with no eyebrows beckoned him over. Roy hesitated, scanned the surroundings before moving forward. The soundtrack of life beaten pronouncements and urgent whispers hadn’t come to a sudden end on his arrival which could only mean one thing: he hadn’t been recognised by the natives.
Taking his chance, Roy accepted the hirsute character dressed in black with no eyebrows' invitation and joined him at the altar. Something told him that this might be it. Unless of course it might turn out not to be the case.

“Hey there buddy, come on in and join the fun! Are you da man?" his companion bellowed.
But before Roy had time to think of a reply, the barman leaned over with a stern look:
"Howsa. Is this man bothering you? Don’t hesitate to let me know, he's been at it all day. Sounds like he’s expecting someone."
A-ha! Roy decided to follow his instinct:
"No not at all, a pint of the-black-stuff if you please. And one for my friend here."
Which found favour with the hirsute character dressed in black with no eyebrows who exclaimed:
"I knew it!! From the moment you entered the room, I thought to myself: Here is the man! The man himself!! Oh but you’re a gent, pal."
Roy still didn't know who from what, Adam from Eve or Ant from Dec, but decided to play along.
"Yep, you got me here buddy, can’t lie to you. That's me alright, I've come for the... you know, what’s going down…"
His new best friend squinted:
"Shhhh, not so loud are you crazy! Ears might hear you and there's plenty of them around here oh yes... So I take it you're a friend of Dorothy, right?"
Dorothy?? A friend of??? Roy gulped hard, tensed up.
"Dorothy's not his real name though, I suspect" the old man continued, almost to himself. "I reckon he's been going by that Monica just to confuse the enemy, he’s clever like that. But -hang on-" he suddenly sat up straight "What tells me you are who you pretend to be?" He squinted at Roy some more. "Let me ask you first friend, what do you think about destiny? Huh? Destiny...? Let me put this to you: a man's attitude... a man's attitude goes some ways towards the shape his destiny will take. Is that something you might agree with?"
Here came the test! Roy cautiously opined:
“Why... sure it does!"
“No, no" and the creature (who was dressed in black, hirsute, and devoid of eyebrows) gripped Roy's arm in a vulture pinch that left no doubt as to his disapproval. "You're too busy being a smart arse here, you're not thinking. You're only saying this to please me, don't imagine I'm not onto you boyo!"

Room temperature fell down a degree or ten, the hour of truth had come to roost. The moment was tense and no mistake; here was a clear riddle, the importance of which Roy could only guess at. What on earth was the correct answer to this nonsense? Fecked if he knew! Roy thought fast, Roy thought hard. He could not afford to fail the test, he could not turn down this opportunity to progress to the next level and learn more about what the feck was going on.
For all he knew, the safety of the free world might depend on his answer! What was to be done then? Would all his efforts –and stepping into Jackeen territory certainly counted as a mighty one- come to an untimely end and go flat like a Guinness sipped by foreigners? ... Roy felt the cold sword of Damocles hanging over his head, ready to come tumbling down straight for his Gordian knot.

He finally let out a convinced grunt.
"...Yep. Yep, I reckon that's the case, all things considered and vice-versa. Absolutely. I’d say that'll do for me, yeah."
To his relief, the old man (who still hadn't grown any eyebrows nor changed the colour of his clothes) yelped ecstatically
"I knew it!! I knew you were da one!! Dorothy wasn't wrong then! He told me he would only send for the cream of the crop, you'll rise to the top, and when you shoot you shoot to k- Oops. Sorry about that." And he lowered his voice conspiratorially. "So now I can tell you then, I can tell you who the contact is and where the link-up’s planned. As for the contract himself, please don't ask me: I know nothing. It's all Need-To-Know know what I mean? Need-To-Know territory, hush hush and Ma's the word, the least the foot soldiers know, the stronger the chain is, like."

Bull’s eye! Roy allowed himself an inside smile like the renowned inventive anatomist that he was. His instinct hadn’t failed him. So there it was then, the key to the puzzle and the nudge in the door, all was about to be revealed. He waited for the pickled wreck to continue... but the scumbag chose this instant to collapse head first onto the bar.
What da??
“Hey there! Hey there, ‘you alright buddy?" Roy shook him up. "’You OK?"
The man turned his bloodshot eyes in his general direction:
“Think I've been shot..."
Feck!! inwardly raged Roy, this couldn't be happening! Surely he hadn’t wandered into some cheap slapdash two-bob bleached-blonde scar-face paid by the line derivative clichéfest, had he? Key witnesses didn't get shot the very moment they were about to spill the beans, did they? And when oh when would rhetorical questions end? 

The barman turned his attention away from his beeping pager:
"Everything OK fellows?"
“Grand, grand, everything's grand" replied Roy, quick as a flash. "Just a cup too many, he'll be right as rain in a sec', just needs a bit of fresh air, not to worry." Had your man been genuinely shot? Roy couldn’t see blood anywhere and hadn’t heard any telling “Pop!” sound above the infernal din that passed as pop music (the air was now heavy with directions to San José of all subjects).
“...I was but a little scamp, no more than 3 or 4" the old man suddenly piped up, causing Keane and the barman to jump "when they came for me old man... it was in County Armagh, see... I didn't move a muscle, didn’t come to his rescue. I couldn't think straight, I was simply too young… They took him away. I can still see me Mammy’s face, she was screaming. They had to knock her out to shut her up. …I still see her at times, these memories never leave you."
Roy and the bartender exchanged a look.
“Ah fair play to you pal, you can't beat yourself up forever... What's past is past -may your old man rest in peace now. These were different times, terrible times to be sure, but they're well and truly gone –‘Lord have mercy. You've got to move on man, you've got to let go. Here have a shot, it’ll perk you up, it's on the house." The barman turned round to pour him one from the upturned bottles.
Keane sat the man up and tapped him on the shoulder in a virile-yet-non-homoerotic-eh manner:
"Ah come on now buddy, don’t die on me, stay with me will you? Wakey wakey! Stand up, ah that’s better –Now then, you still haven't told me, remember? You haven't told me about the contact, you know, the one... the one I came all the way to meet with..."
“Oh yeah that's right, the contact... more blood more trouble is the contact..." The old man closed his eyes for a second, as if in the throes of agonising torment. "What a load of crap if you ask me, this whole sorry business..." He finally perked up. "Still eh, a man’s godda do what a man’s godda do, don’t you agree? If this is what they want, this is what they'll get!"
(-They, who ‘ they? wondered Roy and this reader. What was that all about and could we please get on with it?)
"What you need to do is... now let me see... Ah yes, get yourself down to Trinity, you know the one? Get down to Trinity -That's a college, you uneducated oaf!- and walk parallel to St-Stephen's -but don't cross over to St-Stephen eh, you bleeding eejit! Stay on that side of the road you hear, you’ll find there's plenty of cafes like, cafes and souvenir shops too, oh and the Kilkenny house of horrors. (The Kilkenny...) Anyhoo. Leinster Street South, goes by the name of. So you stay on that side of the road as if to go to the National Gallery except you keep right yeah, you carry on for –what- two or three minutes maybe, twenty at the most, and then you'll come across a small lane on your right, a cul-de-sac called Leinster Lane, Leinster Lane you hear? it's situated right behind the House. Leinster Lane. Your man will be waiting there for you. He'll have an umbrella and a raincoat, you can't miss him."
An umbrella, a raincoat... why, it was all starting to make sense: showers had been predicted this afternoon.
“What time? At what time are we supposed to meet?"
The Man About The House reappeared with the promised shot of fire water. The old man -still in black, still hirsute- downed it in one go. He licked his lips.
“Aaahhh... ain't life grand? Just grand. Say buddy, looks like I'm running low... you wouldn't happen to have some spare change, would you? Just enough for another..."
Keane fished out a fistful of notes and plonked them on the bar.
“Here. Have a jar, it's on me. So, at what time did you say we ‘supposed to meet?"
“Meet? Meet who?"
“Me and your man, you knowww, at Leinster Lane –‘what time we supposed to meet?"
“Ssshhhh not so loud, they might hear us! Noel my good man, gizzas another will you" the old gargoyle gestured "... Right-so. Now then. Your man, what time. Welllll, I ain't saying it won't be before too long ...but then again, it might not be too soon either. In about half an hour at the max I reckon, that’s when the operation's supposed to get underway. You've just got about enough time to get your arse down there son, or else you can kiss your cheque goodbye and no mistake. H’eh! A piece of history in the making, you don't want to be missing that!"
“What da??" jumped Roy out of his seat, and he made for the exit without so much as a “by your leave” to the skank standing guard by the Gents door. Roy slalomed through the zombies engrossed in their mobile phones and charged through the corridor. He just about avoided a swarthy-looking fellow complete with stubble, cheek scar and violin case coming in the other direction, hopped over the dilapidated newspaper vending machine, and finally burst out of this den of iniquity. He ran like hell.
Behind him, a voice exclaimed "Ah here you are! Are you da man?"

.....

Blah weather was back: silverfish were crawling out of the woodwork like they had no business to. Roy tore down St James Street and hoped for the best.

“Dublin For Dummies” would probably portray the town as based around its central river (such is the usual presentation) but, like many things in life, reality was slightly more complex. The East / West division was as great a distinction as the Southside / Northside divide and St James Street provided the conduit between the two zones, it was the dagger slashing through the opposite postcodes.

On warm evenings (and cold ones too), characters of uncertain disposition and loose clothing hung around the gated residences, pressing Devil’s Pop, Kitty Kat, Pogo Malone, Electric Horses, Yellows, Pinball Machines, Instant Elevators, Whack Attack and Jack-a-Daisies onto motorists hiding behind tinted windscreens. Now the fuzz hadn’t minded too much when the clientele consisted of transients and bona fide wasters from the High School of Art nearby but when a couple of young wans from the St Maria-Magdalena of Ascencion y Playstacion were found one night milking the donkey for pennies under the arches, all hell broke loose and questions were asked at the Dail. Red tops demanded action. A sample of certified scumbags got duly done and were sent breaking rocks under a hot sun –end of. ... Or was it. There was no way of keeping such disreputable lot away indefinitely and any time a front-window closed, the corrupters of youth found a way back through the back-door. The street of shame’s meandering pavement offered plenty ‘manholes through which to re-emerge.


Just like the sun never rose on vampires, rust never found time to settle on motor-heads.