The nGardaí
Sicíni, patrolling the streets of Dublin to prevent people spreading the corona
about the place.
‘Excuse me
ma’am, could you not step out of the vehicle, please. Keep your window rolled
up about three quarters of the way, that’s it now. Now, what’s your business
being out and about of a Tuesday? You know that Simon Harris has told all auld
ones over the age of sixty-seven to stay indoors for the foreseeable.’
‘Excuse me, Gard, I’m only
sixty-three-and-a-half, and I’m just going down to Centra to get the messages.’
‘Go on so
missus, good luck to you now.’
Elsewhere
in Dublin, on La Touche Bridge, between South Richmond Street, Dublin Two, and
Rathmines Road, Dublin Six, two extremely youthful members of the Defence
Forces have blocked the way to traffic using sandbags, cans of Harp and
multi-packs of Tayto cheese-and-onion. As night falls, a lone figure emerges from
the Harold’s Cross vicinity walking towards the make-shift barricade.
‘What’s
that over there?’ says Private Peter Buckley to his comrade-in-arms, Tommy
Farrell, who is sitting on his arse on the Rathmines side of the bridge. Tommy
recently managed to pass his repeat Leaving Cert Irish oral with full marks (by
default), even though he’s shite at Irish.
‘Wha’?’
says Tommy, looking up from his Nintendo Switch.
‘There’s
someone over there, carrying a big white yoke,’ says Peter. ‘Look.’
Tommy
stands up and squints his eyes in the direction of the figure emerging from the
darkness. ‘Jaysus, it’s some wan with a load of toilet roll.’
‘Who’s
there?’ roars Peter. ‘Friend or foe?’
‘This isn’t
the bleedin’ war ye thick,’ says Tommy. ‘Ask what their business is.’
‘What is
your business?’ shouts Peter. Tommy rolls his eyes and sits back down on the
ground.
‘I’m going
down to see me daughther to give her this jacks roll,’ replies a woman’s voice.
‘You know
you have no business leaving your house after the six-p.m. curfew missus. Turn
back please.’
‘Ah here.
Me daughther needs these jacks rolls for her three shitein’ children and she
can’t get any of them anywhere for luv nor money.’
‘Stand down!’
shouts Peter threateningly. The woman is now only yards from the bridge.
Tommy looks
up from his Nintendo Switch again. ‘Calm down to fuck would you,’ he says, but
Peter takes no notice. ‘I’m warning you. One more chance to turn back or I’ll
fire.’
Cut to
Henry Street, Dublin One, which is lit only by the Christmas lights,
inexplicably still up in mid-March. An eerie silence hangs over the place,
broken occasionally only by the rustle of rough-sleepers in sleeping bags. In
the doorway of Roches Stores, as Harry settles down for the night he hears the distant
echo of a far-off noise that sounds like a gun-shot.
‘There goes
another one,’ says Harry aloud. ‘Fuckin’ nineteen-sixteen all over again.’
‘Shuddup,’
says a woman’s voice from across the way. ‘Tryin’ to get some bleedin’ sleep
here.’
‘Ah, fuck
off,’ says Harry quietly to himself before drifting off to sleep. He dreams of
a verdant scene of rolling low hills, like something from the Lord of the Rings films. Up in the sky
the sun shines brightly, only when you look closely at the sun it’s actually
the radiant face of An Taoiseach Leo Varadkar. He speaks in his characteristic
monotone, and his Churchilian platitudes echo around the land.
‘We will
fight the corona on the beaches. We will fight it in the air. We will fight it
on land, and sea. It will be my finest hour.’
Harry wakes
with a start. It’s early morning now, and the sky is navy-purple. Someone
sleeping in the doorway of the Meteor shop snores loudly. A man wearing a trench-coat
and gas-mask passes by, walking his greyhound. The dog comes over to sniff
Harry, and Harry pets him. When the man and dog have passed by, Harry observes
the man squirt an entire small bottle of hand-sanitizer on the dog’s head with
a rubber-gloved hand.
The man and
dog disappear in the direction of the Jervis Centre. Silence descends again.
x
x
