travel any distance
cross-country skiing. Thin rations have seen to that. Little wonder, then, that
I am wheezing for breath, sweating under heavy layers. I struggle past the
pillars of the Odeon, down curved Harcourt Street, finally to the corner of
Stephen’s Green, recognisable by the bare treetops protruding from the snow,
and by the shallow crater where work on the Metro station was abandoned in
October.
The front doors
of the Stephen’s Green shopping centre are wide open, the show drifting into
the dark inside.
Here I queued
for food only two days ago. Nobody here now, everything quiet. If there is
nothing happening here, no soldiers or police, no big relief operation getting
underway to get the country back on its feet, then surely nothing is happening
anywhere.
I slide down the
drifting snow at the shopping centre doors. There I take off my skis and set
them against the wall to one side. The interior, lit weakly by the light
filtering through the snow-covered glass roof, is covered with rubbish. Food
wrappers, items of clothing, blankets. And larger forms some way inside that I
can’t see clearly.
There is
evidence of looting all about – broken shop windows, collapsed security
barriers, merchandise strewn about. Now I reach the first of those larger forms
- lying a few feet up a halted escalator. It is a dead Garda. Blood has spilled
down the steps, has halted in static pools and red icicles, frozen like a
winter-locked waterfall. Further up the steps are more bodies, a few in
uniform, others apparently civilians dressed in layered jumpers and coats. One
may be a child, or perhaps is simply a coat dropped to the floor. I do not look
long enough to be sure.
I notice the
bullet cases at my feet, the many pockmarks and holes of bullet impacts.
I turn and rush
towards the daylight. There are two men there with guns.
‘Hold it.’
The voice echoes
around the cold walls and surfaces.
I stand where I
am and raise my hands.
‘Who are you
with?’
Only a gasp
emerges from my throat. A boot strikes the back of my knee and my legs buckle.
‘Get down.’
Something is
poking at my head, my back. Pressing hard enough to hurt. A gun barrel.
‘Don’t shoot.’
My voice is weak.
They kick me in
the ribs. ‘‘Who are you with?’
‘No one.’
‘You think
we’re stupid? Army or Guards?’
‘We haven't got
time for this, Tommo.’
‘Army or Guards?
Answer or I’ll shoot you.’
‘Come on, Tommo,
for Christ's sake. Bring him down to Victor.’
They haul me to
my feet and push me forwards. I still haven’t seen their faces. I stumble
through glass shards, the wreckage of some smashed computers, overturned chairs
and tables, a bloody dead body sprawled at the wide entrance to Dunne’s Stores.
They direct me to the halted escalator leading to the basement supermarket. The
steps are hard to negotiate in the half-light, but the basement is lit in the
golden light of dozens of candles. They make me stand and wait at the bottom of
the stairs. Warm down here. Some of the supermarket shelves are still stocked.
About half the supermarket of occupied by stacks of boxes marked with the
European relief stamp.
But the air
smells foul.
‘Who are you,
mister?’
Two scruffy
children. No malice evident in their faces. A boy and a girl. She presses her
streaked face half obscured in his woolly coat. The sharp laughter of unseen
women echoes on the dirty tiles. The children dash down one of the dark aisles.
Shoved against
a wall, hit my head against it/ Blood that drips over my eyebrow, onto my face.
‘Griffin, ye
space cadeh.’
Both men laugh.
Fat and
red-faced, the speaker has deep creases running from the corners of his nose
all the way around his mouth, almost meeting in the middle of his chin.
‘Watch him while
I get Victor, right?’
When he returns
it’s with a man much taller than himself. This one is different, seems
healthier, more sure in his movements, more frightening in every way. He
cross-country skiing. Thin rations have seen to that. Little wonder, then, that
I am wheezing for breath, sweating under heavy layers. I struggle past the
pillars of the Odeon, down curved Harcourt Street, finally to the corner of
Stephen’s Green, recognisable by the bare treetops protruding from the snow,
and by the shallow crater where work on the Metro station was abandoned in
October.
The front doors
of the Stephen’s Green shopping centre are wide open, the show drifting into
the dark inside.
Here I queued
for food only two days ago. Nobody here now, everything quiet. If there is
nothing happening here, no soldiers or police, no big relief operation getting
underway to get the country back on its feet, then surely nothing is happening
anywhere.
I slide down the
drifting snow at the shopping centre doors. There I take off my skis and set
them against the wall to one side. The interior, lit weakly by the light
filtering through the snow-covered glass roof, is covered with rubbish. Food
wrappers, items of clothing, blankets. And larger forms some way inside that I
can’t see clearly.
There is
evidence of looting all about – broken shop windows, collapsed security
barriers, merchandise strewn about. Now I reach the first of those larger forms
- lying a few feet up a halted escalator. It is a dead Garda. Blood has spilled
down the steps, has halted in static pools and red icicles, frozen like a
winter-locked waterfall. Further up the steps are more bodies, a few in
uniform, others apparently civilians dressed in layered jumpers and coats. One
may be a child, or perhaps is simply a coat dropped to the floor. I do not look
long enough to be sure.
I notice the
bullet cases at my feet, the many pockmarks and holes of bullet impacts.
I turn and rush
towards the daylight. There are two men there with guns.
‘Hold it.’
The voice echoes
around the cold walls and surfaces.
I stand where I
am and raise my hands.
‘Who are you
with?’
Only a gasp
emerges from my throat. A boot strikes the back of my knee and my legs buckle.
‘Get down.’
Something is
poking at my head, my back. Pressing hard enough to hurt. A gun barrel.
‘Don’t shoot.’
My voice is weak.
They kick me in
the ribs. ‘‘Who are you with?’
‘No one.’
‘You think
we’re stupid? Army or Guards?’
‘We haven't got
time for this, Tommo.’
‘Army or Guards?
Answer or I’ll shoot you.’
‘Come on, Tommo,
for Christ's sake. Bring him down to Victor.’
They haul me to
my feet and push me forwards. I still haven’t seen their faces. I stumble
through glass shards, the wreckage of some smashed computers, overturned chairs
and tables, a bloody dead body sprawled at the wide entrance to Dunne’s Stores.
They direct me to the halted escalator leading to the basement supermarket. The
steps are hard to negotiate in the half-light, but the basement is lit in the
golden light of dozens of candles. They make me stand and wait at the bottom of
the stairs. Warm down here. Some of the supermarket shelves are still stocked.
About half the supermarket of occupied by stacks of boxes marked with the
European relief stamp.
But the air
smells foul.
‘Who are you,
mister?’
Two scruffy
children. No malice evident in their faces. A boy and a girl. She presses her
streaked face half obscured in his woolly coat. The sharp laughter of unseen
women echoes on the dirty tiles. The children dash down one of the dark aisles.
Shoved against
a wall, hit my head against it/ Blood that drips over my eyebrow, onto my face.
‘Griffin, ye
space cadeh.’
Both men laugh.
Fat and
red-faced, the speaker has deep creases running from the corners of his nose
all the way around his mouth, almost meeting in the middle of his chin.
‘Watch him while
I get Victor, right?’
When he returns
it’s with a man much taller than himself. This one is different, seems
healthier, more sure in his movements, more frightening in every way. He
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