Gurriers (20 page)

My thoughts were permeated with depression again: stupid idea; so much missing; too much misery in my life already; I need some fucking happiness… poor me.

After another ten minutes in Dun Laoghaire, Aidan dispatched a pick up on Main Street Blackrock to me going to somewhere called Mark Street in Dublin 2, telling me to head into town as soon as I had it on board. When I called from Blackrock, however, he had another pick up on the way in – this time in Sandymount – coming into the Pepper Canister, which I remembered from the previous day. I had to use my map to find the address in Sandymount but managed to pick it up without wasting too much time on it, apart from being caught for what seemed like an eternity at the level crossing at Merrion Gates.

There’s a real element of joy involved in finding strange places but I refused to let myself celebrate – determined that this was going to be my last afternoon as a courier.

The map told me that Mark Street was off Pearse Street fac
ing Trinity College – right beside the railway tracks that ran, elevated, across the city centre(Pity they couldn’t elevate the bastard through Sandymount also!) I decided to drop the Pepper Canister first (obviously) before seeking out Mark Street. On calling him from Mount Street Crescent, he gave me a pick up in Young’s going to Leixlip.

By the time I had picked up Young’s on Lesson Street, crossed Dublin 2, located Mark Street and dropped off there, it was almost five o’ clock, I felt totally and absolutely drenched, exhausted and beaten by the job, the weather and the heartache. Even though I had no difficulty in finding my last destinations, I had not let myself cheer up. I was through with this stinking job after today no matter what happened.

“Four Sean.”

“Go ahead.”

“I’m on Mark Street with just the Phoenix Park and Leixlip on board.”

“Roger, Sean, you can header on and finish up ou’ tha’ way. I’ll see ye tomorrow.”

Ye’d want to have fucking good eyesight to see me tomorrow, Fatso, I mentally remarked. “Roger.”

The Phoenix Park is well signposted and I had no problem finding the Ordnance Survey Office. The problem was, however, that it was closed when I got there and the door didn’t have a letterbox to shove the package into. I never seemed to be more than a hair’s breath away from panic of one sort or another in this job. Here the panic of indecision reigned as I hopefully pounded the door. What was I going to do? The envelope was too fat to squeeze under the door – even if it hadn’t been I wasn’t sure if that was the right thing to do. An element of rebellion in my head was trying to convince me that it didn’t matter a damn what I did because I was finished with this job but it was easily overruled by my integrity.

I was finished this job after I dropped these two, but that was all the more reason to do them properly. I pounded the door again, ever hopeful that there’d be somebody there doing end of
day procedures or cleaning or something – anything just as long as I got this stinking envelope dropped. Optimistically, I took it and my signature book out of the bag and was about to bang on the door again when it swung open suddenly.

“Where’s the fire?” A man in a uniform demanded, half jokingly but maybe a little irked at being taken away from what he was doing.

“Right here,” I answered handing him the envelope and the signature book.

“No problem, son.” He wrote his name, having scrutinised the envelope and recognising the address. The job was done.

Onto Leixlip and my last ever drop as a courier. The envelope was addressed to a house in a housing estate up Captain Hills just off the main street. I had never been in Leixlip before and was quite jittery about finding my way, but there were no problems and the woman at the house signed my rain spattered signature book at ten to six. I practically had to bite my lip to stop myself blabbing to her that she would be my last ever, but managed to stay silent, although I replaced the book into the bag slowly and ceremoniously while trumpeting “The Last Post” to myself in my head.

The lady stared at me curiously before scurrying hurriedly back to the safety of her own home. Home: my next destination. I’d be out of this wet, stinking motorbike gear shortly.

As I manoevered my bike through a 180 degree turn, I gave it a little bit too much acceleration in my enthusiasm for the angle I was leaning at on such a wet surface and the back wheel stepped out slightly. This, although easily corrected with a good wrench of the handlebars and a stamp of the foot, inflicted the customary burst of adrenalin that is present at every loss of control on two wheels.

A wave of icy fear swept over me in an instant, causing a brief bout of cold sweat which lingered long after the bike was back in control.

“Easy does it, Sean, be aware of the driving conditions always,” I chided myself as I rolled cautiously towards home.

Eoin and Marie were both in the kitchen preparing dinner and therefore saw me park and lock the bike in the back garden. I was greeted sympathetically as I slid open the back door.

“You poor thing, you must be drenched!”

“Was it really horrible?”

As I stood dripping on the thankfully large doormat, it was all I could do not to blubber like a baby as their concern sparked off a volcano of self-sympathy. I just dropped my drenched gloves on the mat and then nodded my reply to Eoin as I undid my helmet strap

“Come in and close the door. Do you want a cup of tea?”

“I’d love one, Marie, but I don’t want to ruin your floor. I’ll just get the gear off here.”

She scampered towards the kettle. A dribble of water squeezed out of the foam inside the helmet as I slurped it off my head for the last time that day. The relief of being home considerably dampened the discomfort though. I placed the helmet upside down beside the gloves. Eoin picked it up.

“I’ll put this in the hot-press for you, Sean and dry it out a bit.”

“Cheers, Eoin, you’re a star!”

I took the courier bag off as gingerly as I could but still heard a dribble of water crashing onto the mat behind me just as the strap was over my head. I dropped that on the mat followed quickly by the radio.

It was extremely uncomfortable taking off the soaked jacket, still dripping, but the removal of the combined weight of jacket and water was a relief in itself. It’s very awkward to take off boots from a standing position but mine were off in no time – such was my eagerness to end my discomfort. The totally saturated socks were quick to follow, exposing feet more wrinkly than I had ever seen them before. The leggings came off a damn sight easier than they had gone on leaving me with a sprint to the bedroom in leathers and T-shirt to complete the welcome removal of wet garments.

“I’ll clear them up in a minute, Marie,” I said as I whizzed
past her.

She shouted out the door after me. “No problem, your tea’ll be on the counter.”

“Cheers!”bellowed down the stairs.

“Oops, sorry man!” Nearly bashing into Eoin at the top of the stairs.

Having changed my mind in mid-flight, I made for the bathroom to take off my leathers, balancing them on the taps to drip into the bath itself. Removing the soaking wet t-shirt and boxers left me feeling as if I had been freed from an evil curse and towel drying myself was more refreshing than I had ever felt it to be before.

Next on the list was to wash myself. My face had been feeling progressively more grimy and clammy as the day had gone on and ached for a good scrubbing. My hands were as wrinkly as my feet and stained blue with leather dye – which can take days to wash off completely. I never enjoyed or appreciated soap and hot water as much as I did that evening, as I vigorously scrubbed myself clean. After my wash, I adorned tracksuit bottoms and a baggy T-shirt but opted to leave my feet bare, which was like a party for them compared to the restraint of soaking wet motorbike boots.

I grabbed my cup of tea from the kitchen before joining my friends who had adjourned to the sitting room.

“Spaghetti bolognese for dinner, Sean.” Marie knew that I loved spaghetti bolognese and had been delighted to announce the menu to me.

“Lovely stuff – just what the doctor ordered. I’ll do the washing up, of course!”

A heavy sigh left me as I slumped into the armchair.

“Sure this is the first dinner we’ve cooked since you moved in. You just relax yourself there.”

“So, was it a hard day?” Eoin quizzed.

“That’s an understatement Eoin – that is such a tough job! I’m not able for it. I’m packing it in.”

“Oh,” he said, a little surprised.

“It’s not like you to give up, Sean!” Marie said.

“Marie it’s just so… so… thankless. I was there this afternoon – driving in the pissing rain, thinking that I was doing all right. The base controller called me and asked me if I had been delayed! Wondering what was keeping me! And I got lost in Blanchardstown – and I had to carry a cabbage to someone and …” I informed them about the other events. Every thought that had happened in the solitude of my head galloped alongside the events of the day in a stampede of information that erupted from me. My friends, God bless them, sat and endured the most comprehensive verbal onslaught that I ever endowed on anybody. They listened patiently to my entire, often bordering on tearful, account while the spaghetti overcooked itself in the kitchen.

Having exorcised my self-pitying demons, I commenced drying my drenched gear as my friends prepared the dinner. I took the gore-tex lining from my jacket along with my boots and my gloves upstairs to the bathroom. I wrung out the gloves into the sink, surprised at how much dyed water that they held, and then opened the hot-press door. I was dismayed to see it packed full of clean clothes, which had already been displaced by the helmet, holding pole position on the shelf above the hot water tank. I had to take extra care with this wet and dirty motorbike gear. I gently placed the jacket lining around the helmet, folding the arms crisscross on the top to keep them from falling onto Marie’s clean clothes. Shifting the spare duvet, gained me enough room on the floor of the hot press to store my boots upside down, leaning against the tank. The upturned soles, apart from facilitating thorough drying, provided a perfect shelf to gently place the gloves on. Luckily the tumble dryer in the kitchen was free for me to put the jacket and the leggings in for a dry cycle. I noticed a slight frown of concern from Marie at me putting motorbike gear into her machine and vowed to myself to be sure to put a wash on as soon as the jacket was out of it in case of any crap left behind. It would, of course, be a towels and underwear wash because of the danger of staining involved.

“Ready for dinner, Sean?”

“And then some. Let’s eat!”

I devoured my dinner like a man who hadn’t eaten in days. Hunger had gradually snuck up on me during the constant distraction the afternoon had entailed and a much sharper hunger at that – multiplied by the more physical nature of this job than any I’d ever done before. Fully gorged, the three of us retired to the living room to relax in front of the TV, where I was quick to realise how tired I really was. My limbs seemed to melt into the armchair in relief, as my body gratefully slumped into its favourite position. In my weary mind, I repeatedly vowed that I was never going to go through a day like this again. Never!

By ten o’clock I had rested and relaxed enough to perform the rest of my chores: washing up dishes; clearing and cleaning the washing machine; hanging up my jacket; putting on the wash; hanging leathers up to dry in my room and having a bath. I left the bath until last because I knew that I would only be ready for bed after a good hot soak. At ten past eleven I popped my head into the living room to say goodnight to my friends before retiring.

Nighttime is always the worst time for broken-hearted people, and in the weeks since losing Saoirse I had come to dread going to bed, often sitting up watching drivel on the telly, just to avoid giving myself the opportunity to dwell on the misery that being in bed alone invariably presented. The dread was still there tonight, but it was overpowered by the exhaustion so much that I actually felt pleasure at slipping under the duvet for the first time since my world fell apart.

My thoughts, as per usual, went straight to her as soon as my head hit the pillow but tonight, instead of twisting and turning and wishing and hoping for tortured hours on end, I carried my thoughts with me into a deep sleep.

The next thing my conscious mind was aware of was the front door banging behind Eoin as he left for work at half eight the next morning. There was also a slight awareness of the ghosts of the subconscious fleeing the light of day back into the dark recesses from whence they sprung. In happier times I used
to chase these ghosts – grabbing hold of them to remember my dreams – but these days they were best left alone.

There was one image, however, that lingered to be caught and recalled which surprisingly had nothing to do with Saoirse. It was an image of me crashing onto a tarmac surface after having the back wheel of the bike slide away from me.

There was no mystery to this little sliver of a nightmare; it was the worst-case scenario of my little back wheel episode in Leixlip, what would have happened had I not regained control immediately. It was obviously a manifestation of fear generated by the panic caused in that brief instant but it intrigued me to find it there in my dreams.