Read The Magdalen Martyrs for Free Online Page B

as if help was available. It wasn’t. He asked,
    “You sure that’s a good idea?”
    “Did I miss something, Jeff? I could have sworn I asked for a drink, not your opinion.”
    He wiped at his mouth, then,
    “Jack, I can’t.”
    I stared into his eyes, took my time, said,
    “You’re refusing to serve me?”
    “C’mon, Jack, I’m your friend. You don’t want to do this.”
    “How on earth would you know what I want to do? If I re-call, when you went on the piss, I didn’t get righteous on you.”
    I turned to leave, and he called,
    “Jack, wait up, Cathy has some news for you.”
    I shouted over my shoulder.
    “I have news for Cathy: I don’t give a fuck.”
    Outside, I gulped air, trying to calm my adrenaline, muttered,
    “Great, you’ve just hurt your best friends. How smart was that?”
    The off-licence was jammed with under-age drinkers. Cider, vodka and Red Bull were definitely the drug of choice. The guy behind the counter was in his bad thirties. Whatever bitter pill he’d had to swallow, it was still choking him. Without looking at me, he grunted,
    “What?”
    “A bit of civility for openers.”
    His head came up, and he asked,
    “What?”
    “Bottle of Jameson.”
    I was going to add,
    “Quickly.”
    But let it slide.
    As he wrapped, he said,
    “You think I should ask for ID?”
    I knew he meant the line of teenagers, but before I could reply, he said,
    “If I refuse, I get my windows smashed.”
    I gave him the money and said,
    “The guards can shut you down.”
    “Like they give a toss.”
     
    I was walking along the bottom of Eyre Square. Under a street lamp, a woman in a shawl asked,
    “Some change, mister?”
    She was one of those Mediterranean gypsies who stalked the fast food joints. Her mouth was a riot of gold teeth. The light threw a malevolent shape to her silhouette. I thought,
    “What the hell?”
    And reached in my pocket. Didn’t have a single coin. Had left my change on the counter. I said,
    “Sorry, I’m out.”
    “Give me something.”
    “I told you, I’m tapped.”
    She eyed the brown bag, pointed, and I said,
    “Dream on.”
    I moved past her and she hissed. I turned back. She was literally standing on my shadow. Throwing her head back, she drew saliva from the core of her being, spat on that dark shape, said,
    “You will always break bread alone.”
    I wanted to break her neck, but she moved fast away. I am no more superstitious than your average Irish guilt-ridden citizen. Using my shoe, I tried to erase the stain her spittle had left on the pavement. Nearly dropped the bottle, muttered,
    “Now that would be cursed.”
    _______
     
    Luc Sante in
Low Life
wrote:
     
The night is the corridor of history, not the history of famous people or great events, but that of the marginal, the ignored, the suppressed, the unacknowledged; the history of vice, of fear, of confusion, of error, of want, the history of intoxication, of vain-glory, of delusion, of dissipation, of delirium. It strips off the city’s veneer of progress and modernity and civilization and reveals the wilderness.
     
    I said “Amen” to that.
    Outside the hotel, I noticed a very impressive car. An elderly man was staring at it. He said,
    “That’s an S-type Jaguar.”
    “Is it yours?”
    “No such luck.”
    His eyes were shining as they took in the sleek black body. He said,
    “The thing is, with all the power and luxury of a 3-litre V65-type at your disposal, even your business miles are positively a pleasure.”
    He sounded like a commercial. I said,
    “You sound like a commercial.”
    He gave a shy smile, said,
    “That baby doesn’t need a commercial.”
    I made to move by and he said,
    “Do you know how much that costs?”
    “A lot, I should imagine.”
    I could almost see the cash register in his eyes. He said,
    “You’d need half a decent Lotto.”
    I let out a low whistle, said,
    “That’s got to be a lot.”
    He gave me a look of bordering contempt, said,
    “No, that is a