City Slickers

When they got home the first thing he did was to lie down on the bed and beckon he to follow and put on the TV and check out the final election results. It was as he expected, the government had been returned, and would be for the next few elections, as the opposition was fragmented into mutually hating parties. It didn't matter as much as it would have if he wasn't representing one of these parties himself, not that he felt empowered to change anything, only emboldened with the knowledge that more people would listen when he complained.
He handed her the remote and went out to make dinner, somehow with that Christmas feeling that things ought to be different in some fundamental way, when he was just making a dish that he’d made a thousand times before. He came back into the bedroom to find her watching one of those vapid talent shows with a guilty look on her face. He asked her if they could switch over to the election coverage, she pleaded that the show was almost over and that she wanted to find out who’d won. Seamus grinned and bore it, rationalising that those people up there on the gaudy neon stage murdering songs that should have been allowed to die a peaceful death in the 80’s really just wanted the same things he did, to rise above the mediocrity and the sameness and the dullness and the greyness of their lives and to strut and fret their three and a half minutes on the stage and have something to tell any legitimate children they might have about when they were famous, when all our resources were used up and there was no more TV or radio or computers and young children only knew about such things from reading old copies of PC World that they burnt to ease the pain of living in the endless winter that the polar ice caps melting would bring about. He’d also heard that more people in he 18-24 demographic in the yUKky voted in one of those shows than in the last general election, and the irony wasn't lost on him.
She saw the vacant look that was on his face and must have assumed that she’d have the same look on her own sublime visage when they were going to plays or art openings or arthouse movies up in Dublin because the next thing she asked was,
“I suppose you won’t have to cook anymore when we go to Dublin.”
“Mmmm, I don't know, I like to cook, and I’m going to be a TD, not a junior doctor.”
“But won’t you have lots of long debates and stuff?”
“Yeah... maybe... but that’s when it’ll be your turn to cook, I guess.”
“But aren’t we going to eat out sometimes?”
“Maybe once in a while. I’ve never really liked restaurants, I’ve never liked the idea of other people slaving away in a hot, noisy, steamy kitchen to cook food and I’ve never liked the way they give you such a small portion so you have to buy an appetiser and a desert to fill yourself up and I hate the way eating out in expensive restaurants confers respectability on people in the way that patronising the arts once would have done and I hate the inoffensive classical music they play in an effort to subliminally make you buy more food and I hate the fact that they don't cater adequately for vegans and I hate the way that you have to grovel to make a reservation as if paying twenty or thirty times what it would cost you to make the same food at home was some sort of privilege and I hate the queasy feeling on the way home from the MSG and the lactose and the...”
She laughed and told him that he sounded like professor Frink from the Simpsons but the laughter was of a nervous modernist novel kind which left him wondering if they had any real future. He held her close and told her they’d eat out sometimes but he didn't want to make a habit of it, which seemed to mollify her.
He had to sit through another 10-15 minutes of that vacuous crap on the TV, he consoled himself by telling himself that this was the number of years he’d have to spend in jail if the fuzz ever found out what had happened the nazi and the cunt, so he was getting off pretty easily. When he was allowed switch over, he found that Caomhin’s predictions were prescient, Sinn Fein were indeed a real political party in the south, the voters that Seamus and others had been canvassing so assiduously had granted them this, and no-one had ever seen their noses growing. It didn't change the overall balance of power, though, Fianna Fail and the P.D.s were getting back together, though the latter’s increased representation meant that this time the latter would want to go on top. Seamus realised what this would mean, the rich would stay healthy and the sick would stay poor, crime would go on increasing and the people the government would punish would be immigrants, late-night drinkers, clubbers, small-time drug users, everybody but the violent criminals and heroin barons and their own corporate cronies. Yet in a way it suited Seamus to be able to carp from the sidelines free from any possibility that he might ever enjoy power himself, it suited his confrontational nature more.
While Seamus was watching the results come through and the augerers examine the entrails to see what they foretold, Jenny was reading a glossy magazine and had her back turned to him, which reminded him of a scene from a Godard movie, though he couldn't remember which one, like Kundera’s novels, they all sort of merged into a sort of oneiric pot-pourri. When he was satisfied that he’d watched enough election coverage, he switched off the TV and turned to face Jenny. She looked over her shoulder and asked if everything had worked out the way he figured, with a disinterested tone that reminded him of his grandmother asking what the score was in a soccer game. He nodded, said he guessed so and then started to caress her, though all the time it distressed him that the only thing they seemed to have in common was mutual lust, as if his life-giving organ was the only thing vivifying their relationship, as if in some grotesque pornographic parody of Michalangelo’s creation. He kept thinking of this when they were fucking, managing to forget at just the right time.
Yet the next morning he was still sad to see her go, so it had to more than the sex that drew him to her. Perhaps it was that she represented some frivolous, carefree alter-ago, some part of himself that never thought about the future that his parents killed when he was about twelve, that he’d never get back again, like that little red fire engine his mother had given away when he was four. But he wasn't going to think about this right now, when there were newspapers to be read. He broke the habit of a lifetime and bought the Sunday Independent along with the Tribune, eager to know what they had to say about his party’s new-found pull. Needless to say, their supporters looked completely different through the Sindo journalists eyes, lumpenprolitarian untermensch, whom it seemed they could insult as much as they wanted as none of them would ever read such an august organ, preferring, they must have imagined to go out badger-baiting if they weren't too hangover from drinking all that meths the night before. Though they stopped short of advocating sterilisation for Seamus’ working class supporters, he couldn't help detect a nostalgia for the days when working class people knew their place, which was in a factory, a church, or a cold, claustrophobic red-brick house. He stored the anger that the articles generated somewhere in the back of his head, feeling sure it would come in useful some time. Then he moved onto the Tribune, which he felt would offer more in the way of support. There was actually a profile of all of Sinn Fein’s new T.D.s, including himself, which seemed to borrow somewhat from the earlier article in the Examiner. They didn't seem to know that much about him, describing him as a relative newcomer to Sinn Fein, and judging his youth and good looks to be the source of much of his appeal, but they delicately avoided the subject of that radio interview, which came as quite a relief.
After a while he’d read everything the scribes had to say about the election, Jenny entered the room with her characteristic flourish, tossing her handbag on the chair and lying down next to him on the bed. He looked over at her groggy-eyed, she asked “Getting some sleep before the big day tomorrow?”
He rubbed his temples, having been trying to forget about that whole ordeal that lay ahead, only a ten-hour temporal moat standing between him and it, he could almost hear the crossbows of stress and insomnia being tightening. Jenny didn't see it in those terms, clearly excited to be moving in with an upper-middle class university educated person when her friends were either knocked up, working in some shitty, dead end job, doing some worthless FAS course or going out with some shaven headed dude who’d fight with them all the time, or some combination of the above.
Seamus knew better than to approach the adventure with raised expectations, having found sex, university and everything else in his life a big disappointment. Jenny could sense he wasn't as excited as she was and wanted to know why.
“It’s going to be different for you than it will be for me. I’ll be working all the time, while you’ll just be having fun, unless you ...” the prospect that she might want to have children terrified him so much that he decided to end the sentence with “decide to get some work as well”
She gave the right, like that’s really going to happen, laugh, but then adopted a more serious tone as she told him that it would be hard for her as well, that she didn't know anyone up there, that he’d be working all the time and that she’d want to go out and party. He was surprised by this, she always seemed so outgoing, almost the antithesis of himself, though there was no reason she couldn't have been overcompensating, he supposed. Though he was really the one in need of comforting, he told her that she was such an amazing girl that she’d rise to the top of Dublin society before he’d even made his maiden speech. She smiled, though he could sense her figuring out what a maiden speech was. Then she started to kiss him, but he was giving her the not-tonight look. It surprised her to learn that all the repressed sexual tension that had been building up for the last two weeks had been released so quickly, but she acquiesced. They talked a little, about their families, about Dublin, but it was clear that they were doing so for the sake of form, his answers becoming more and more somniferous until eventually he drifted off completely.
The alarm woke him the next morning at 6.30, to his surprise as he’d completely forgotten to set it. When he’d stopped shuddering he looked at Jenny, who nodded at his anticipated question. It seemed that if there was a time when they used to say that behind every man there was a great women, for Jenny this time was clearly now. They had breakfast silently, communicating merely by winks and nods, Jenny having been with Seamus long enough to know he wasn't a morning person. Though he’d remembered to buy a suit on Saturday he’d forgotten to buy a briefcase and had to put everything he thought he needed for the journey into his rucksack. Jenny didn't comment on this, though she was surely conscious of how it would look in the photographs. They weren't living far from the train station no there wasn't any need for a taxi, though one would have added something to the occasion, as it was he felt as he was merely going up to Dublin for a gig, or even a school tour. He let Jenny feel the excitement vicariously for him, constantly swinging her handbag and urging him to hurry up, though they’d given themselves plenty of time. Caomhin was at the train station waiting for them, sucking the last embers of a cigarette, the butt of which he tossed on the ground as he caught sight of them. Seamus muttered something about not being able to approve of such a thing seeing as he was probably going to be environment spokesperson and all, Caomhin merely laughed in response and asked why he hadn't bought a briefcase. It made him think off his first day in college, when everyone else had ring binders with those plastic holders and shit and he just had a pen and a few scraps of paper. Ah, but who ended up with an MA? Caomhin had a few things to say about what Seamus would have to do and how he should comport himself, Seamus made the same show of nodding assent that used to work pretty well for teachers, parents, psychiatrists and the like, and then asked as politely as he could if he could be permitted, ant’ please your honour, to put on his discman and doze off for a few hours. Caomhin, who had bought all the papers but hadn't had a chance to read them yet, assented. He didn't have one of those discmans that you could stick two pairs of earphones into, so Jenny had to be content with placing one hand on one of his thighs and resting her head on his shoulder, watching the green fields where once were forests where the great Irish elk used to roam but where now farmers were paid to grow grass.
Seamus was listening to Billie Holliday, whose dulcet tones could always lull him into somnolence. He had a dream that he’d been having a few times lately, where he was back in school but never knew what room he was supposed to be in at any given time and had to wander around every room before he found the right one, with their weird colour schemes and their creaky partitions and the relentless religious imagery that never let him forget that he was living in a Catholic country. He woke with a shudder that brought him to the attention of everyone within his range of vision and left the three of them blushing nervously and Caomhin joking that you couldn't take him anywhere. He apologised and then tried to figure out what it was about.
His schooldays weren't the happiest of his life, but they were the mise-en-scene for all his dreams. This one could have been a topical, agit-prop dream about the challenge he was now facing, he didn't have any idea how the next five years were going to go, or even more mundanely he might not be able to find his office. Or, pace Dr. Freud, his subconscious could be berating him for jumping around from one girl to another, though recently he’d been loyal to Jenny, so this would have been inappropriate. Or it could have been something more fundamental, a realisation that he’d never find the niche he was looking for, that being a TD wouldn’t fit him any more than being a student or a slacker or the outsized suit that hung on his narrow shoulders.
He didn't sleep any more for the rest of the journey, though he didn't talk much either. Caomhin was behind a paper shield and Jenny didn't want to talk to him much either, whether because she knew he was tired or because she wanted their relationship to remain an enigma to Caomhin he didn't really know. He looked out the window to admire the view for a while but there wasn't much to admire, with the hedgerows disappearing and the fields becoming neat rectangles, the countryside was turning into a bumpier version of Holland or the American plains states. Reluctantly, he picked up one of the papers, knowing that none of them would have anything good to say about him or his party. Normally he relished this outsider status, but today he seemed to need reassurance, so he picked up the Irish Times diffidently, as if touching an iguana for the first time. His fears were justified, as the wise men inside the Pale were treating the arrival of Seamus and the other Sinn Fein deputies as a sort of invasion of mountainy men from the hills that threatened everything they’d done to build a Protestant work ethic-driven Thatcherite consumerist replica of England in their country. Seamus tried to shrug it off, telling himself that this sort of scaremongeing was the sort of thing that sold newspapers but he was afraid that on some deep level he agreed with them and it would be impossible for him to conceal the fact that he did for five years.
He looked briefly at the foreign news section, which brought tidings of another food scare in the yUcKy. He wondered why they bothered printing it, those people had food scares all the time, their stiff upper lips had become supple to the point of flaccidity from all the howls of fear about the food on their plates.
Though the trains were just as slow as they were when he was on school tours a decade and a half earlier, the started seeing the outskirts of Dublin sooner as the outskirts were expanding almost exponentially, like computer hard drive capacities or Bono’s ego. The endless suburban sprawl depressed Seamus no end, though he could feel Jenny becoming more excited, clutching his hand more tightly as she sensed the city getting nearer, becoming jittery in a way that caused the seat to vibrate. Seamus didn't start preparing to disembark until he saw Caomhin, who’d been up and down to Dublin more times than he’d had hot clichés, fold his newspapers and put them into his briefcase. Then he suggested that Seamus take the briefcase, as this would make him look more professional. They got out at the gloomy Victorian terminus and followed Caomhin, the one who had a sense of what he doing. They made their way onto the street and found a taxi. Caomhin got into the front and said Leinster House, please, which Seamus had been kind of looking forward to saying, but he meekly followed Jenny into the back seat. When the cab driver had nudged his way into the ‘flow’ of traffic, he asked Caomhin what their business was in the heart of Irish democracy. In a defiant, proud tone, he told him that this was the new Sinn Fein representative for Cork North Central. The driver became taciturn in response, not so much as asking Seamus’ name. Feeling slighted, he grasped Jenny’s hand more tightly. She gave him a brief, comforting look but then concentrated on looking out the window for the rest of the awkward, silent journey. It seemed that the city was a large building site with shiny new buildings springing from the ashes of old factories. Yet the dirty Liffey still ran through the city as if to remind people of it’s dark, impecunious past, like an ex-alcoholics red nose, or a numerical tattoo from a nazi death camp. As they got closer to the centre of the city they could see more signs of all the affluence they kept hearing about, vulgarly large SUVs made the streets even more clogged up than they would have been otherwise, all the exclusive shops from the yUcKy had come over here and started selling their wares to Dublin’s burghers, the cheaper, tackier places swam behind in their slipstream. If it wasn't for the remaining well-preserved Georgian avenues and the distinctive drawl that no amount of homogenisation would drown out, they could have been arriving in a medium-sized city in England, though if he was the hostility from the cab driver would have been less muted, he suspected. He tried to ignore the fact that Jenny was visibly excited at the prospect of spending his money in the same shops that he was reviling.
This made him think of the spaces between all the people in the cab; neither Caomhin nor Jenny knew of his plan to leave the country after five years, they didn't know anything about each other either, except what Seamus had drip-fed them on a need-to-know basis. None of the three knew anything about the driver, except that he was not an Sinn Fein supporter, he knew nothing more about them than what his own prejudices would inform him. And yet here they all were, inside the same car, brought together, ultimately by an arbitrary, violent incident in Seamus’ life half a year earlier.
The driver seemed to be going round to all the houses, meandering round like a sadhu during the monsoon season when there were no stars nor sun to navigate by. But that was what taxi drivers did, as much as teachers shouted at people, journalists made up stories, politicians lied, and sometimes, like Seamus, killed people brutally. Knowledge was power, and he had knowledge that they didn't, the knowledge of how to get round this congested, convoluted city. But they got there eventually, Seamus paying the fare and even including a generous tip in the hope of sowing a seed of cognitive dissonance in his mind. He just replied with a look that suggested that he knew Seamus’ type, though Seamus would be amazed if that were true.
They stepped out of the car to find most of the parties grouped outside, chewing the cud, swapping gossip, trying to look like they were impervious to the presence of all the cameras. Seamus was able to pick out the Sinn Fein bunch easily enough, having seen their faces on TV. Caomhin knew some of them from the old days, though which old days these were Seamus was unsure of. He waved and brought Seamus and Jenny over to them. It was Caomhin that was welcomed, and asked how they’d managed to secure such a massive swing down there in Cork. Gracefully, he told them he’d found a charismatic candidate who the voters had taken a liking to, which was Seamus’ cue to introduce himself. He felt strange holding their hands, feeling that he might have been shaking the hands of murderers, the ironic thing being that he might have been the only murderer among them. Caomhin talked with some of his old acquaintances, while Seamus tried to feel his way round the new world he found himself in, while the rest of them wanted to talk about taking the six counties back, he was more interested in the minutiae of being a TD, about constituency work and what his more mundane responsibilities would be. He kept looking over at the greens, feeling he’d probably be way more comfortable over there. Eventually, though, the photographers who were hovering around wanted a good shot of just the seven Sinn Fein T.D.s together and asked Jenny and Caomhin and some of the other friends, partners, etc., to step out of the way to facilitate this. The shots, which were in all of the following days newspapers, had them framed from a wide angle, standing around in random positions and made to look like they were gangsters in a film like Reservoir Dogs. Eventually it came time to be sworn in, he had to leave Caomhin and Jenny outside, wondering what on Earth they’d find to talk about. He found out that the Dail wouldn’t be in session until the end of September- it was now the middle of August - but that the Sinn Fein parliamentary party would be meeting the following day with the party leadership to decide what their strategy and individual responsibilities would be. He wasn't sure what the month in between would be spent doing, and hoped one of the other T.Ds would ask before he did. The idea of a holiday appealed to him, though he feared it would be taken up with endless meetings and constituency work.
When he met Caomhin and Jenny again a few things had been cleared up, he knew when the Dail would be in session, how much he was going to be paid and when, but not what his role was in the party or what he was expected to do for his constituents. Caomhin promised that he’d help him with that end of things, then Seamus asked him if he could come to the meeting with him, but Caomhin told him he’d be on his own there, but added that he’d pulled a few strings and Seamus was assured of the environment position, which relieved him a little, though the idea of meeting the leadership without moral support from his mentor scared the hell out of him. He asked Caomhin what his plans were, he said he wanted to go back down to Cork and start setting up a constituency clinic. Reluctantly, he bid him goodbye.
Jenny was eager to start looking for a place in Dublin, but Seamus convinced her that they would be better off waiting till the following day.
“Don’t you have some sort of meeting tomorrow?”
“Yeah... but, it’s already afternoon, I think we’re better off looking for a hotel right now.”
He knew this would mollify her, though he probably had a much cheaper hotel in mind than she had. Amazingly, he’d been to Dublin so few times that he’d bought a lonely planet guide to the city a few days before, so that they could easily have been mistaken for a couple of Israeli tourists. Indeed, when they did get another cab, the driver saw the guidebook and asked them where they were from. On the spur of the moment he decided they were Swedish, that they were a little disappointed by Ireland’s parliament building, and that they’d been wondering why there was so much activity that day. Jenny just managed not to giggle.
“There was an election on Friday and the T.Ds - members of parliament - are being sworn in”
“And was there a change in dee govurnment?”
“No. Same old, same old. But the smaller parties are gaining ground, the greens and Sinn Fein.”
“Sinn Fein? De’re lick, dee I-ur-ay, right?”
“Well, it’s more complicated than that, but, yes, broadly speaking.”
“And do yoo suppord dem?”
“Lord, no, I don't. I don't believe in violence. I don't think it gets us anywhere.”
“Bud I hear dee I-ur-ay are no longer violent.”
“So what do they want, a bloody medal? I’m sorry, I shouldn’t talk like that in front of visitors to our country, it’s just that after being asked the same questions about the north for thirty years there’s going to be a certain amount of resentment.”
Seamus said he was sorry in a Swedish accent, which he was glad he’d put on, but didn't feel like saying anything more to the driver, so he started kissing Jenny instead. They lay down in the back seat together, and Seamus didn't know whether he was hiding from the driver, the vulgar nouveau-riche affluence of Dublin, or the whole new life that had been carved out for him.
They got to the hotel and Seamus thanked the driver with the words “We zay ‘tak’ back ome in Schweeden, you know”, which finally made Jenny break out in laughter. The driver shrugged his shoulders and drove away.
Seamus paid, in cash, as he still didn't have a cheque book or a credit card, and they went up to their room. It seemed like a perfectly nice place to him, as he stretched himself on the bed, but Jenny seemed disappointed, standing at the door with her bags still in her hands.
“What’s the matter, come on, lie down.”
“I was expecting somewhere a bit nicer.”
“What’s wrong with this place?”
She looked round for a tangible fault, but then said “Nothing, I was just expecting somewhere a little more luxurious.”
“Jesus, I’m a member of the Dail, not the freakin’ Sultan of Brunei.”
She looked blankly at him, then he beckoned her to lie down with him, which she did, reluctantly.”
“Look, we discussed this before. Yes, I’m going to be earning lots of money, way more than I was earning before, but we need to be careful, ‘cause I might not get elected next time, and I don't want us to get used to living any sort of extravagant lifestyle. But we’re going to have a good life. If you want us to be better off, maybe you can get some sort of job, maybe some modelling or something.”
At those last words her face broke into a smile.
“You really think I could be a model?”
“Of course. You can trust me, I’m a politician.”
Knowing that was meant ironically, she started to prod him, gesture he returned Then his tone became a bit more serious, as he said, “I’m sure we’ll get some invitations to parties and stuff and someone will ask who that striking beauty is and then you’ll be on your way.”
Her smile became broader and she climbed on top of him and started to kiss him. He didn't do much in response, except admire his own diplomatic skills. He was enjoying basking in her love when his phone went off. He let it ring a few times before he let himself become convinced that it was important enough to climb from under Jenny and answer. She looked stoical, probably realising that this was how her life was going to be, as he walked around the room with the phone pressed to his ear, imagining that this was how people in his sort of position acted.
It turned out the people ringing him were from RTE and they were inviting him to come on a TV debate with newly elected T.D.s from all the other parties. His first reaction was to ask where they got his mobile number from. It turned out that Caomhin had passed it on, though he was far from the first person they had to ring. Turning his attention to the mirror, and whether his hair was alright, he found out that the debate was going to go out live the next night, shortly after he’d met the leadership that day. He agreed, looking over at Jenny, assuming she’d be Okay with it, and started asking questions about the protocol and if he could get tickets for friends at which point Jenny suddenly became more attentive. They answered all his questions in the sort of public relations speak that he despised, and he put the phone back in its green white and gold holder he’d found lying around Caomhin’s office and started fretting and looking to Jenny to calm him down. She was excited when he heard, she’d inferred that she’d have a place in the audience and asked if there was anything he’d like to be asked. His amusement at her naiveté assumed him a bit.
“I don't think that would be very ethical”, he replied, trying not to sound condescending. She looked a bit disappointed, but he reassured her that her face would probably get on camera anyway. Then he asked her why they’d chosen him, and he got the following, fairly predictable response.
“It’s because you’re the most telekenic, of course.”
He was too flattered to tell her that wasn't the right word, instead he replied, “So the rest of the Sinn Fein crew didn't make much of an impression on you, then?”
“If you can’t say anything nice, don't say anything at all.”
He laughed and his conscience let him enjoy a few seconds of pleasure before he started thinking of how his family and Grainne would react. He often thought of emailing them, it would be unwise to try to contact his mother given the brusqueness of her last reply, but he thought his brothers and sister might be more receptive. But he had no idea how to broach the subject, and fell back into his Micawbrish hope that one of them would contact him, even if they didn't have his personal address anymore then he’d probably have an official Dail address sometime soon. Comfortingly, his thoughts drifted to the less contentious issue of how the expansion in electronic communication would effect his work as a TD. Then he realised Jenny was still there, making a more cogent demand on his attention by the mere fact of her presence.
“So it looks like I’m going to be tied up all day tomorrow. Have you any plans?”
“Well, I was going to do a bit of shopping, but...”
Seamus rubbed his thumb against his fingers to connote that she was relying on him to fund any such venture. He reached for his old wallet and picked out two fifty pound notes, apologising for the fact that he wouldn’t be able to give her any more for a while. She kissed him and asked how long he’d had that wallet, he told her the story and she looked a little melancholy in response, perhaps because he’d once had strong attachments to his family which he’d given up to carve out this new life with her. Feeling that such thoughts would fill his head during any conversational vacuum, he asked her if she was going to look at any places to live tomorrow.
“I can’t do that by myself, silly. It’s something we have to do together.”
“Well, I thought that too, but I’m going to be busy, so...”
“So it’ll have to wait ‘till Wednesday, won’t it?”
They fondled each other for a while after this though it was clear to Jenny that they weren't going to be going all the way, and soon Seamus was scrambling around looking for his toothbrush. Jenny seemed disappointed though the prospect of taking her new found friends for a trip to Grafton Street seemed to cheer her up.
She was still asleep when he woke the following morning, lying on her back with her arms spread out and a contented look on the mouth through which he was gently aspiring. He had breakfast downstairs by himself, trying to figure out how he was going to get to party headquarters and probably looking for all the world like a tourist figuring out how to get to Kilmainham house. Eventually he gave up and decided he’d have to call a cab, which made him feel even more like a tourist. He got there early, and was surprised at how haphazard it was, hardly that much of improvement on Caomhin’s operation. A few of the newly elected T.D.s were also there early, looking as befuddled as himself. Word had gotten round that he was going to be on TV later on that night.
“Yeah”, he replied, trying not to sound nervous, “ I guess they chose me ‘cause I’m the least experienced and most likely to fuck up.”
“Ah, don't worry, you’ll be fine”, replied a TD from one of the border counties in a lilting Ulster drawl. Have you ever been a member of the IRA?”
“No”, Seamus replied.
“There you are. That’s all they want to know.” The other T.Ds laughed in a way that suggested they knew all about that and, having had the ice broken, they chatted again, for about half an hour, until they heard a car pull up outside. They went to the window like eager schoolboys, seeing the press corps leap in action in a mad scramble, as if summoned to attention by royalty. When the interviews were over and the photographs taken, they all went back to their seats. Seamus didn't know what to expect, but as it turned out, these feared terrorists who struck fear into the hearts of every Daily Mail reader were both affable and articulate, even in the presence of their own supporters. They talked more of their mundane responsibilities as T.D.s than of the big irredentism issues, Seamus being given the impression that they were handling that pretty well by themselves, thanks. Then they started appointing portfolios, Seamus nervously awaiting his. He saw the leader of Sinn Fein look him in the eye and he felt this brief moment of terror when he thought that he could somehow tell that Seamus was a phoney, and he gulped.
“So, Seamus, you’re getting environment, so you’re responsible for the Earth. Do you think you can handle that?”
“I’ll do my best.”
“Well, that’s all we ask”, he responded in a paternalistic tone.
The meeting went on like that, polite and civil, an outsider might not have even known if this was an Sinn Fein meeting if they hadn't raised their arms and shouted Tiocfaidh ar la at the end. It all went quicker than he expected, except that he was asked to see the two leaders privately at the end, which terrified him, though he made a show of affable benediction for the other T.Ds
When he was inside facing these two feared, despised men, they made their reasons for wanting to meet him plain.
“We’ve been given to understand that you’re going to appear on TV tonight. We actually don't know that much about you, we never even knew that we had a chance down there in Cork until a week or two ago. You’re young, and probably passionate, but on the TV you have to stay on message. Soft rhetoric, gentle words. Peace process, self-determination, equality of representation. I guess you already know this already, but we have to be sure.”
Seamus told them that he didn't need to worry, that Cork voters had tested his diplomatic skills to the limit already, that he was going to concentrate on presenting himself as the champion of the poor and disenfranchised. They seemed impressed by his soft-spoken demeanour, gave him a folder outlining what his position was to be on all the major issues, and then left hurriedly as if they had better things to be doing, though Seamus didn't really want to know what they were.
When they were gone he looked at his watch and realised that it would be four or five hours before he’d have to start making his way to the TV studio, and figured that he’d never be given enough time to express these positions in adequate detail, that he could give them the once over on the way to the studio, as if cramming for exams. So he rang Jenny and asked her where she was. She was on one of the clothes shops on Grafton Street. He figured the traffic wasn't going to be very heavy and that he could meet her there in half an hour. He asked if she knew where the tart with the cart was, she said she didn't but could ask.
He met her there in the heart of the Hibernian metropolis, carrying some bags that bore the logos of some British store chains. Everyone else on the street was wearing the uniform of their social class, professionals wearing suits and carrying briefcases, the proles were wearing shell suits, the backpackers were carrying their backpacks. There used to be a law in England forbidding middle class people to dress like their social superiors, now they seemed to do it voluntarily, and had exported their stratification’s over here like everything else. Jenny hugged Seamus and showed him what she had bought, which was clothes, he didn't seem that interested, telling her that she looked good no matter what she wore. She looked disappointed and asked him where he wanted to go, he said it was up to her, secretly, he didn't care as long as there were lots of people to see the two of them holding hands.
They passed what seemed like hundreds of shops with gaudy posters in the window encouraging them to buy things they didn't need. She seemed to be a lot happier than he was, in this world of consumerism, he’d rather be visiting the National Gallery but he felt that he’d already forced her to make so many compromises that he was going to let her lead him around this Stygian morass for a few hours. And to be honest to himself, there was a part of him which found the whole experience appealing, passing all the fresh-faced young girls on their summer holidays, leading the carefree existence that he’d somehow let slip him by when he was a teenager, though even then he wished they had something more edifying to do than shop.
They had dinner in a vegetarian restaurant which wasn't all that expensive, though the servings were a bit nouvelle cuisine. He didn't really talk to her all that much, just read through the position papers he’d been given and let her admire the stuff he’d bought. He called a cab, mentally figuring out what this would bring his total spending to and vowing to be more careful in future. Inside the cab she started to kiss him in the hope that they’d do their normal clandestine frottage thing but Seamus told her that he’d need to
know exactly what he had to say, so kept focused on his papers.
He was met at the studio by a liaison officer, who, to his surprise, greeted him in Irish. He shook hands, and was led to the make-up room while Jenny was led to what Dickens would have called an eternity room.
Time passed slowly for him as well, like in some bad Beckettian play by some first year drama student. He kept repeating what he was supposed to say over and over again until it became so much of a mantra that he was afraid the words would lose all meaning and he would come across as a robotic glove puppet of the Sinn Fein leadership, which of course he wasn't. He did some breathing exercises he’d read about in a Sunday supplement, trying to project an aura of calm to those around him, trying to forget that his mother might be watching. It was hard to forget, though, when he finally got the cursory attention that he’d been made to wait for all this time, which consisted of a few disinterested dabs of make up which seemed to indicate that while he might have power out there in the real world, that all men were equal before the camera, then a tightening of his tie that jerked him back to his eighties schooldays as inexorably as a Frankie goes to Hollywood song on the radio. Tragically, he remembered the first time he was asked to speak in public at school, when he burst into what he would have described as a fit of girlish giggles if that wasn't so unreconstructedly sexist. He breathed deeply, as if the antiseptic studio air could wash these bitter memories clean from his brain. Then he looked in the mirror one more time to see his clean-cut, blushcheeked head emerging from his tightly squeezed neck and wondered if the people watching who thought that behind the polished facade lay a Boschian pit of violence and wrath weren't perhaps right after all.
He was led into the studio, where the presenter was chatting amiably with the other panellists, which discussion was barely broken to allow him to greet Seamus. After he did, the discussion went on for a few minutes. He listened intently, though his eavesdropping yielded nothing more than gossip about other politicians and people in the media. He scanned the audience, making sure not to make any eye contact, except with Jenny, who was seated way at the back, who waved to him in a way that didn't draw attention to herself.
When the On Air light finally came on and the show finally began, he was relieved that everyone else was given a chance to answer before him the question about what the composition of the next government was going to be. When it was his turn to speak he said something platitudinous about the government moving incrementally to the right but the opposition making a quantum leap to the left which reflected a growing maturity in Irish democracy, but the audience seemed stunned, not perhaps by anything he said but by the mild-mannered way in which he said it. When he finished talking, he took a sip from a glass of water and looked up to the audience to see Jenny smiling with relief. When it came to the more awkward questions, like what his position was on law and order, he was, needless to mention, forced to deny that he supported vigilantism, though it was the presenter who ended up looking like the aggressive one. But when he was eventually asked what he would do about crime. He said the first thing he’d do would be to legalise all drugs, which would remove the incentive for criminals to sell them, and then he’d do something to stem the flow of ‘lad mags’, creatine and steroids from the yUKky, though he refused to be drawn on how he would go about that, which prompted patronising guffaws from the young Fianna Fail TD opposite him. He breathed deeply, and calmly responded that under five years of his party’s government the country had become the booziest country in the world and had gone from being one of the least violent to one of the most dangerous, and that all his party could do in response was to take out TV ads telling people to drink less. He looked a bit chastened and didn't know what to say in response, though inwardly it was Seamus who was worried about how his party’s leadership would deal with such a wild deviation from the party line.
Then they came to the north, as surely as any American tourist would ask him if there was still a big war thing going on in Eye-ur-land. To his surprise, they didn't come to him first, but to the PD, who made some snide remark about the continuing presence of arms “which one of the other panellists might be able to shed some light on”, at which all eyes turned to Seamus.
He affected a “Who, Me?” look of surprise and told them that he thought she was talking about her colleague from the coalition partners. The presenter seemed taken aback, and asked him what he could mean.
“There is a large deal of arms production going on in this country, and it’s all because of this government’s policy of inviting any company into this country that’ll provide a few jobs, even if they make components for weapons that are used in Israel, Columbia, Indonesia and some of the other nastiest regimes in the World. The horrible irony is that I’m the one who’s accused of having links with terrorists, though the truth is that the incumbent government are doing more to advance state terror than any government we’ve ever had.”
The presenter was so taken aback that he chose to leave the subject rest and went onto the next question. He didn't ask Seamus for his opinion on any more subjects, which infuriated and relieved him in equal parts.
When the show was over, no-one even shook his hand, as if he was a nouveau-riches builder who’d managed to gain membership to a golf club but would never be really accepted.
He found Jenny outside the studio, standing around nervously, as if she wanted to leave as soon as she could. He asked her what the matter was.
“Nothing... I mean, I wish you wouldn’t be so controversial.”
“Sweetheart, it’s my job to be controversial. People wouldn’t have voted for me if they didn't think I was going to be so controversial.”
“Yeah, I know, but...”
“But what?”
“But I want people up here to like us. I want to be popular and invited to parties and get my picture in the paper and...”
“Look, I know you want different things in life than me. I knew that when I brought you up here. But I know we can both have what we want... you just have to trust me.”
He kissed her and told her that it was time to get out of there. She seemed disappointed that the night was ending this way, having clearly had some fantasy of being invited to a party afterwards with lots of trendy media types. Instead they were making their way back to their mid-range hotel to probably not make love as they were both too tense.
They got a taxi, secretly, Seamus wanted to get a bus and hope someone would take a photo of him and give him some man-of-the-people street cred, but it seemed like a bit too much to ask in the circumstances. On the way the phone rang, and it was Caomhin. He was impressed with the way that Seamus had turned the arms issue around, but warned him not to be so outspoken on the drugs issue.
“I know, but...”
“I know you know, that’s what makes it so infuriating. I’ve already had to make several phone calls to save your bacon. You’ll get away with it this time, but try and be a bit more careful in future.”
Seamus nodded, then remembered he was on the phone and said ‘Okay’. Caomhin wanted to know when Seamus would be back in Cork, he said that they would be looking at places to live in Dublin the next day, at which point Jenny’s face lit up, and that they would be back in Cork the following day, at which it dropped. Then he put the phone back in his pocket, and told her that if they found a place they liked and could afford, she could stay there if she wanted. She was a bit surprised by this.
“Aren’t you worried that I might meet someone else and bring them home?”
“Nah, if you love somebody, set them free. I know how much it means to you to live in Dublin.”
She looked a bit suspicious at his altruism and asked if he was planning to see Grainne while he was there. He looked stunned at the very mention of her name, though just a few months before he was planning to spend the rest of his life with her.
“Lord, no, I’ll be way too busy to meet her.” She smiled at the notion of Seamus being too busy to do anything else, ever, and they merged into an embrace which lasted until they got back to their hotel.
The next morning they got up early and after breakfast went to buy a newspaper. He scanned the headlines as he always did, the election was losing it’s grip on the front pages, and the food scare over in the yUcKy was edging it’s way onto into the Irish consciousness. It was all over the front of the imported tabloids.
He bought the Irish Independent, a paper he normally disagreed with every word of, including ‘and’ and ‘the’, but today it had a property supplement, so he gave over his pound of cash and they started flicking through. They were totally ignorant of Dublin geography, but as usual they wanted different things, he to live somewhere near the centre of town so he’d be able to get everywhere on foot, just like he did in Cork, she to live somewhere where she’d meet hip, trendy people.
Seamus was a little shocked at the prices people were charging, it seemed that landlords and property owners felt some moral obligation to hoover up all the excess money that was floating around as if they were performing some sort of civic service by doing so. He even wondered if his plan would be sustainable. Eventually he came across one place that was both close and cheap. He checked it with Jenny first, who wanted to know if it was a nice area, he said, oh, yeah, sure without a great deal of conviction. He got on the phone, asked if the place was still available, almost asked, out of force of habit, if they accepted rent allowance, but remembered that he would now be accepted into places where they took professionals only, even if he was going to be cagey about what that profession was.
The place was in Temple Bar, which was within walking distance, so they walked there, holding hands, looking at the street signs like tourists. When they got there it looked Okay from the outside, and when they got inside it still seemed Okay to Seamus, with all the conveniences that would allow them to do things in the best modern way, the walls were bare enough to provide a tabula rasa to mould in his own image. Seamus wanted to know who the other tenants were, or at least he gave that impression to the landlord, or whoever it was that was showing them around, he suspected that the person who really owned this place was sitting on a beach in Portugal right now. It turned out that most of the people living here were artists, which cheered Jenny up a little, her demeanour having been somewhat ambivalent before, which prompted the landlord’s rep to ask what it was that Seamus did.
“Oh, am, civil service”, he muttered in response.
She looked taken aback, having perhaps seen in his smouldering eyes the same promethean angst that burned in the other tenants, but said that it took all sorts, etc., etc., that his money was as good as anyone else’s, ha ha , which brought them neatly to the subject of payment. Seamus was surprised that they were so eager to take him in what he imagined was a landlord’s market, but he said he could go down to the nearest ATM right away if she wanted, which led Jenny to draw him to one side.
“Are you sure you want to take this place?”
“Yeah, why not?”
“Well, for one thing, you haven’t asked my opinion?”
“Oh, yeah, sorry, force of habit, I’m used to looking for places by myself.”
“Right. And I guess you always look at the first place you take as well?”
“Well, I guess, if the place is Okay then there’s no point in shopping around, is there?”
“And you think this place is Okay?”
“Well, what’s wrong with it?”
“Well, nothing, I s’pose, it’s just that, well, I was hoping for somewhere more...”
“Luxurious? Spacious? Look, this place is fine. We discussed the financial situation already. If you want to get a more expensive place then maybe you can get a job and then we discuss it.”
She looked a bit frustrated, as if she was having to make her own compromises to live the way that they were going to live, that being a dutiful partner was repugnant to her but that she knew that the only way she’d ever achieve wealth or fame was through her good looks. He could empathise, when he was a teenager he realised that he couldn't play any sports and was too skinny to attract women, and the only thing he had going for him was his intellect, such as it was. But he felt the need to reassure her more.
“C’mon, trust me, this place is going to be great, we just need to brighten it up a little. It’s better than living with your parents down in Cork, isn't it?”
She couldn't argue with this and just gave a nod that was embellished by the slightest smile. They went back into the main room, which the agent looked as if she was mentally decorating, and told her that they were going to take the place. She gave the sort of smile that suggested she worked on commission, which would explain why she’d been so eager to have them here. She suggested it would be better if they filled in the forms first, and that she could give them the keys when he got the money from the hole in the wall. He tried not to look too fazed by the fast pace of life of these Dubliners, and started to fill in the forms, with the agent watching every stroke of is pen with the same intensity as an invigolater that took a dislike to him in his college days. She shuddered audibly when he wrote down 1972 as his day of birth, as she noticed him noticing her shuddering, she was compelled to comment that she’d imagined that he was in his early twenties.
“Yeah, I get that a lot.” He looked over his shoulder at Jenny, as if they shared the secret of eternal youth and weren't going to pass it on to the first sales rep they came across. Soon they were out on the street withdrawing from an ATM and getting the keys and the rep was rushing off to meet some arrivals to her fair city. Seamus was amazed at how fast this all went, the process of moving in with someone for the first time, how his new status had given him the confidence to smooth his way past these two young women. Before they went to buy food and stuff for the house, there was one ritual that Seamus had always imagined undergoing that he wasn't going to let slip by. As they were entering the house, he put one hand on her back and another on her lower thighs and picked her up of the ground, and lifted her up the three flights of stairs. After the first she asked him why he was doing this but he replied only with an exhausted puff of air. He wanted to drop her on the bed but he hadn't given her key yet so he had to put her down and open the door, but in the end is was his own sweaty, red-faced form that he was dropping on the bed, and it was her that was unostentatiously getting him a glass of water. He drank it a little too fast and it went against his breath and he wondered if this happened to any other men who were carrying their spouse over the threshold. Then he thought that though it was an archaic, chivalrous gesture, that it was a meaningless one in a world where women enjoyed such equality, but that, even though she didn't have a ring to prove it, Jenny really was dependent on him for her way of life and it might have been better not to reinforce that fact. But she didn't seem to mind, the whole incident revealing his charming and vulnerable sides at once, perhaps giving her the feeling that he needed her as much as she needed him.






































They went out to do the shopping, the first time Seamus had in any city other than Cork. Remembering what had happened the day before, he gave her some money to get some stuff to decorate the house and delegated the responsibility of bringing home some food to himself. He gave her her key, in a conscious imitation of a marriage ceremony, and they went their separate ways.
He was home way before her, having found a health food store to rival the Quay Co-Op just round the corner. In his part-Jewish version of splashing out, he bought everything he needed there, though the organic veg cost him two or three times as much as their carcinogenic equivalents. He knew it would be a while before she got home so he bought himself a paper and lay back on the smoothly ironed bedsheets, having little if any idea how often he’d be able to enjoy this simple pleasure in this vita nuevo.
By now the election had been pushed off the front pages and the food scare in the yUcKy was getting more column inches than any other story, with photo’s of the emaciated bodies of the disease’s victims on all the front pages. Realising that, as Sinn Fein’s environment spokesman he’d have to have some sort of opinion on that matter, he decided that this was something he’d have to take seriously and not just something for those awful beef-guzzling Anglo-Saxons to worry about. Before he’d even started to read what the scribes had to say, his position was formulating itself in his mind. He was going to blame industrialised agriculture, and play a game of brinkmanship in which he’d go as close as possible to attacking the British in a racist way in demanding an end to British meat imports, and any processed food that contained milk or milk products just for good measure. But then as he read through the copious newsprint devoted to the subject, he found out that the disease didn't seem to come from force-fed cows, nor battery-farmed chickens, nor pigs that were forced to become cannibals to survive, nor wild bush meat imported from Africa, but from the humble black puddings, most of which, Seamus suspected, actually came from his own humble island.
The implications of this fact sent his mind hurtling into chaos. What if... no, surely not. Surely this disease wasn't caused by... no, the idea was too far fetched, outlandish, even. And yet, and yet, something must have contaminated the black puddings that had allegedly killed several dozen people in the yUcKy, they must’ve come from somewhere...
He tried to put the subject out of his mind, but as he read the rumours about what the make-up of the new cabinet was going to be, as he read the reviews in the supplement, he found his eyes glazing over and his thoughts fixated on what he might have done. What if it really was him that had caused this epidemic? What if it was the blood of the cunt and the nazi that had been sent home to it’s native island that was causing their compatriots to cough up their own blood till there was no more blood left to cough and their withering bodies shuffled off their mortal coil? No, the symbolism was too perfect for this to be true. Two thugs, defecated by their own brutal, uncaring society onto the island that they’d exploited for so long, washed back up as a result of the hatred that their nefarious, reprobate ways inspired to infect it with the same poison that had been used to make their island a great power. It could be a metaphor for anything. For the way the aggression that had made England a nation of wealth being turned back in upon itself, for how the world dealt with waste, for the whole savage, brutal history of Anglo-Irish relations, a history that would never reach a peaceful end, no matter how many British TV shows or newspapers the Irish would read, no matter how their comedians made us laugh or their musicians made us cry.
Seamus knew he couldn't keep these thoughts to himself, but he knew he couldn't discuss them with Jenny, that he’d have to let them keep ripping him apart until he went back down to Cork tomorrow to discuss more mundane stuff with Caomhin.
He put a brave face on things that evening, feigning interest in the posters and the pot-pourri and all the other stuff Jenny had bought, deferring to her judgement on where they should be put up, pretending to admire her judgement and her taste. He even managed to have sex with her, though if she knew what dark thoughts he was utilising to delay ejaculation she would have run out onto the street naked screaming, and wouldn’t have been even remotely imbalanced for doing so. Yes, we all had our dark secrets, the demons we wrestled with on lonely insomniac nights, yet surely none were as dark as those that burnt behind Seamus’ smouldering, blue-green eyes.
In the morning they were surrounded by purple-red bags, as sleep didn't come drooping slow, nor any other way. He staggered out of his bed at around eight, hoping forlornly that he might grab a cupla hours sleep on the train. He left a £50 note on the bed for Jenny, much as his uncle had done before leaving unannounced for America almost two decades before.
Caomhin was shocked at the state of Seamus when he saw him. At first he looked guilty, thinking this was something he’d done to him, sucking the colour out of his cheeks with excessive campaigning. But when they started talking, he realised that fatigue wasn't the half of his problems. When Seamus started to communicate his fears to him, he listened patiently, like a psychiatrist, but Seamus could perceive a growing incredulity on his face as he peeled back the various layers of the onion. When he was confident that Seamus had outlined his fears in enough detail, he scratched his beard and said,
“I’m sorry I made you campaign so hard, Seamus. I really wanted to win this seat, for all sorts of reasons, personal and political. I never stopped to think what it was doing to you. And now you’ve got the added stress of moving to Dublin and appearing on that show and everything... tell you what, I’ll take care of all your constituency work for a week or two, and you and that young lass go away for a while, to Kerry or to Connemara, get some fresh air, some exercise, clear your head.”
Seamus was stunned and wondered if Caomhin had actually listened to what he’d been saying. He started to splutter incoherently, which only confirmed Caomhin’s conviction that he’d been working too hard.
“Are you saying you don’t believe me?”
He paused before offering the following, measured reply.
“To be honest I haven’t really been keeping up to speed on that food scare. But if you consider the volume of meat eaten in Britain then our chances of having anything to do with this are really remote. If they’re blaming us, it’s because they never accept responsibility for any of their own problems - I seem to recall they blamed Chernobyl for some radioactive sheep in Cumbria. I’m sure if you take a few days off and step back from all this then you’ll realise all your fears are just the product of your overactive imagination. And even if they’re not, then what do you care if you’ve caused a few deaths among English meat-eaters?”
Seamus felt like the one person in the movie that knew that the new neighbours were really flesh-sucking alien zombies and that his last chance to convince the world that he was not deluded had been in vain. But what else could he do? Could he go down to the cops and tell them he’d hacked off the limbs of two English thugs and that their blood had been sold to an exporter of black puddings? That wouldn’t win him any friends. In his frenzied state, he didn't even stop to think that Caomhin might be following some agenda by offering to do his constituency work for him. He just decided that maybe Caomhin was right after all and that he did need a holiday.
“I’m sorry I burdened you with all this... it’s just that... I didn't know who else to turn to.”
Caomhin’s face became more sympathetic and more sinister at once.
“Y’know, even if this was all our fault, there’s no reason we should feel guilt. They didn't feel guilt when they starved our population, told themselves the famine was a gift from God.”
The fact that he appeared to be taking his speculations more seriously caused him no end of cognitive dissonance.
“So... what’re you saying?”
“The same thing I’ve always been saying, that you need a break. I’ll do all the dirty work while you’re away, I’ll even write your speech for you if you want.”
No, no, I’ll write that myself, thanks, it’s writing itself, in here, somewhere.” He pointed to the back of his head.
“Well, you’ll let me vet it, won’t you?”
“Of course”, he replied, his tone becoming more deferential.”
“So you are going to go away for a while, then?”
“Well, if I can persuade Jenny, she’s spent her whole life trying to get away from the countryside, it’ll be hard to drag her away from Dublin again.”
“Well, you could always go on your own, although...”
“Yeah, hmm, well”, was what he said instead of admitting that that might drive him even crazier than he was already, knowing that Caomhin was thinking the same thing, then added, “I’ll give you a ring when I’ve finalised my plans.” He left, trying forlornly to give Caomhin the satisfaction of thinking he’d calmed him down a bit, though he’d really just opened up a whole new can of worms.
He decided that he was too fraught to get the train back to Dublin and that he’d have to stay in his old place in Cork. It felt strange being back there, when he used to return from his home village, it seemed urban and cosmopolitan, when he came from a really big city like Dublin or London, it seemed small and parochial. There were still a few tattered posters of him attached to some lampposts, some leaflets being scattered around by the breeze, much as he was being thrown about by a malign fate, or so he felt.
His old place seemed similarly forlorn, everything as he’d left it in a 17th Century Dutch still life state of statis, except for a few letters on the hallway floor. One of them was a rent allowance cheque, he’d have to get that cancelled, some time.
He lay down on his old bed and got on the phone to Jenny, who was IN A SHOP ON HENRY STREET when he got through to her. She asked him to wait for a minute during which he contemplated the apparent stillness and order of his flat and the contrast with the maelstrom behind his eyes.
“Yeah, Hello, Seamus?”
“Yeah, Jenny, listen, Caomhin was like, saying that, y’know, I’ve been working really hard and stuff, and that he’s going to take care of my constituency work for a while so, we can take a break for a week or ten days?”
“Can we go to Ibiza?”, she replied, excitedly, so much that people must have taken their eyes off the shop windows and street artists for a second. Seamus tried to dampen her expectations as subtly as possible.
“Erm, I was thinking somewhere more like Kerry or Connemara.”
“Aw, why can’t we go somewhere more exciting?”
“Well, um, you don't have a passport yet, do you?”
“No, but...”
“Well, I guess that’s settled, then. Listen, I’m going to stay down here in Cork for tonight, I’ll be back up tomorrow afternoon and we can make some plans then.”
“I thought you were coming back today.”
“So did I, but I really need to rest right now. Have you got enough money to go out tonight?”
There was a pause in which he imagined she was looking through her purse.
“I’ve actually spent most of what you gave me yesterday.”
“Listen, we’re going to have to be more careful. Is there anyone you’ve made friends with in the house that you can borrow off?”
“Em, no not really.”
Seamus cursed silently the fact that in this age of Globalised high-tech, high finance, there was nothing he could do to transfer money the short distance from Cork to Dublin.
“Well, maybe you can get some guy to buy you a drink.”
“Sea-MUS!”
“I’m only joking. Listen, see you tomorrow, my sweet.”
He blew some kisses into the phone and reflected that there was nothing in that conversation that would have revealed how traumatised he was at that moment, that she couldn't study the lines on his face, that the conversation took place in a visual vacuum which they were both filling with wildly inaccurate images.