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  ‘Fuck off.’

  Dan adjusted his glasses, folded his arms, and stood back to watch as if ‘Man Attempts to Open Box’ was some new avant-garde form of entertainment.

  ‘Here, what’s in it anyway?’

  ‘A gun.’

  ‘Yeah right,’ snorted Dan. Then he took a tentative step closer. ‘Is it? I wouldn’t put it past you.’

  Kavanagh wrestled the box open, peeled back the layers of bubble wrap and pulled out the implement. He looked at it and then pointed it at Dan. ‘See? It’s a tattoo gun.’

  ‘Oh, is that what they look like? Why do you need that? Do they not have them in Dúch?’

  ‘We-ell,’ said Kavanagh, ‘Finn won’t let me use his. Says I have to learn by observing first.’

  ‘Makes sense,’ said Dan.

  ‘Nah. The best way of learning something is to actually do it. Fuck this watching shit.’

  ‘So … you’re gonna do tattoos with that yoke?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s the idea, Dan.’

  ‘On who?’

  ‘Everyone.’

  Dan shook his head. ‘Not on me. Tattoos are lame.’

  ‘You’re lame, Dan. I do need some practice though. Next time you’re asleep …’. He pointed the gun at Dan and made a buzzing noise.

  ‘What, you’re gonna set bees on me?’

  Kavanagh rolled his eyes. ‘That’s the noise the machine makes. I could tattoo you a bee though, if that’s what you’re into. Right …’ he moved the gun close to the centre of Dan’s forehead, ‘here.’

  ‘Keep that yoke away from me, and my beautiful, beautiful face. If you’re looking for someone’s face to experiment on, I’d go with Gary’s. I mean, let’s be honest, it could only improve things.’

  Kavanagh laughed, grabbed a couple of cans from the fridge and put them in the pockets of his hoodie. He put the tattoo gun back into the box and carried it with him as he headed towards his bedroom. ‘Right, I’ve work to do. Later,’ he called over his shoulder.

  Kavanagh placed the box on his desk, and took out the pot of black ink that he had ordered alongside the tattoo gun. It was a rotary machine that, according to the user reviews, Gives good results and is handy for lining and shading. Sweeeeeeet!!! 4.5 stars. Another plus point was that it was the cheapest one he could find. The gun was lighter and smaller than the ones in the tattoo parlour. It felt good in his hand. He switched it on and heard the familiar hum of Dúch, but in miniature. He took another long swig from the can, took a deep breath and then rolled up his trouser leg. Now he would finally see what this tattoo business was all about.

  Chapter 3

  Stevie walked the length of Shop Street amongst the meandering stream of pedestrians. Buskers competed with each other for airtime like a radio being tuned in. The sounds of a djembe drummer overlapped with the operatic warblings of a raven-haired woman singing along to a blaring backing track, before fading into an acoustic guitar version of ‘Fields of Athenry’. A balloon modeller fashioned a pink balloon-dog for a little girl. A group of young lads heckled a man posing as a statue in an attempt to trick him into moving.

  ‘Push him over!’ said one.

  ‘He’s only standing there. He’s not doing anything,’ said another, shaking his head in disapproval.

  ‘Let’s rob his money,’ said the first, making a sudden lunging movement towards the hat full of coins that was lying at the man’s feet. Stevie smiled to herself as she saw a faint flicker of panic betrayed on the man’s silver-painted face.

  She was new to Galway, and was still taking it in. What she enjoyed most was strolling around the city streets. She saw it as it was, but she also saw the old Galway underneath, like a faint pencil sketch visible beneath a thick layer of paint. At the Spanish Arch, where youths sat and stared dreamily at the brown churning river, hiding their beer when policemen on bicycles came by, she saw the old fish market in her mind’s eye, and the shawled women with red petticoats selling the Claddagh fishermen’s catch. She saw the noblemen and women in the old Lynch townhouse that the bank now occupied. Crowded tenement houses were still visible to her, despite their modern guises. Beneath the restaurants and craft shops of the cobbled passageway of Kirwan’s Lane, she saw candlelit figures in windows as the clip-clop of horses down medieval laneways sounded in her ears. It was all there for her. She could see it all.

  Stevie headed towards Neachtain’s and saw that all of the outdoor seats were filled with people drinking pints. She had arranged to meet up with Orlaith, an old friend from Trinity, who had become a secondary school history teacher, and had also recently moved to Galway. They would have to sit inside. It was no harm; a breeze was setting in, and it looked like rain was on the way. Stevie thought to herself how strange it was that just a month ago she had felt so lost. Since then, something had imperceptibly shifted. Stevie could now feel the deliciousness of time stretching out before her, time on her own. She had been warned that undertaking a Ph.D. could be a lonely business, but now she looked forward to languishing in its solitude – the hours spent in research, the silent reverie, connections made, ideas sparking – as she weaved her way through history.

  When she moved to Galway, Stevie had worried about living on her own. For the first two weeks, she had hardly slept. Unwanted thoughts invaded her mind, which triggered a succession of emotions, a domino effect of grief, regret and anger, until she would be weeping into the darkness, or conducting arguments in her head, denouncing the shadows on the edges of her mind, trapped like a helpless witness as scenes repeated themselves, an endless churning vortex she couldn’t escape. Sometimes, during these moments, she heard her own voice in her head, a coolly detached observer: This is it now, Stevie. You really are fucking losing it.

  She drank then to help her sleep, and it worked a bit. But one glass of red wine led to two, three, a whole bottle, until she was bumping into chairs or dropping glasses or just about managing to stop herself from ringing Donal. The following day she would be groggy. By the time she had woken up, the best part of the afternoon was already past. Her thoughts were slippery, and she didn’t have the strength to clutch them to her. Everything slowed down, and the most simple task seemed monumental. These days she could sit in a café for an hour or two while she read a history book, or watch people flowing past, content in her own company. Now, when she thought of her time with Donal, and the fact that she was no longer with him, she felt huge relief, like shrugging off a wet wool coat, like she had been holding her breath without realising it, and now she was inhaling a steady stream of oxygen.

  She stepped into the cool darkness of the bar. Temporarily blinded as her eyes adjusted to the indoor light, she heard Orlaith before she saw her, that old, familiar laugh. She was sitting at the bar, chatting to the barman. Orlaith was strikingly beautiful with jet black hair, pale skin and hazel eyes. She couldn’t blend into the background if she tried.

  ‘Hey, Orlaith!’ Stevie called, and before the second syllable had left her mouth, Orlaith had spun around, leapt off her bar stool and ran to hug her. ‘Oh my God, you’re here! I can’t believe it. This is brilliant. Here, what are you drinking?’

  *

  They wanted the night to spin out of control, take them where it willed, carry their puny bodies on its whim. Stevie and Orlaith travelled from pub to pub, trading stories, filling in the blanks of the years between then and now, all the while shedding their possessions like old skin – an umbrella, a hat, a ten Euro note – sacrifices they offered up to the night. They passed a woman with one shoe hobbling along Shop Street, and greeted her like a long-lost friend. They wanted the night to spin out of control, and they would not question where it brought them. Obedient, they would go where it led. They bellowed into the night, and new friends came crawling from alleyways in response, their numbers swelling under that inky sky, all spinning. They took the pills in tha
t last pub, and now the lights were changing. Their bodies were becoming melodies. They had basslines for fingers, and their pupils were the taut skins of snare drums. The night was spinning out of control, but they would cheat the night and they would not sleep. They would float.

  In the taxi, they headed towards Salthill, and Stevie looked out at the rain bleeding into the passing lights, an ever-changing art exhibition that flickered and danced in the car window for her alone. This was what she had needed all along. It was so clear to her now.

  There were decks at the party, and Stevie and Orlaith submerged themselves in the music coming from the speakers. Stevie felt the bass pump through her body. She was the bassline, rhythmic and charging, filling up the room with love. Inhaling sharply on her pipe, she realised she had already smoked it all. She dug out her pouch of tobacco from her bag, refilled it and lit up, before grabbing Orlaith in a bearhug of an embrace.

  ‘Thanks for bringing me out!’ she shouted in Orlaith’s ear.

  ‘No, thanks for coming out,’ beamed Orlaith. ‘It’s so great to see you again. I love you.’

  Their words flowed out of their mouths, rolling and scattering like marbles.

  ‘I love you too,’ said Stevie.

  ‘I love this song,’ said Orlaith.

  ‘I love it too,’ said Stevie.

  ‘What is it?’ said Orlaith.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Stevie.

  ‘Teaching has ruined nights out for me,’ said Orlaith, looking furtive all of a sudden, eyes darting around the room from beneath her thick black fringe. ‘I’m always worried I’ll bump into one of my students.’

  Stevie grinned. ‘You’re a pillar of the community now, Orlaith.’

  ‘I know, Stevie. How the fuck did that happen?’

  Their dancing was all-consuming, but then they wanted to talk so they sat on the sofa. Stevie had to tell Orlaith the problem with Donal, and she had to listen and stroke Stevie’s arm, and every so often Stevie would say, ‘I’m talking too much am I talking too much you don’t have to sit here listening to me I know I’m talking too much…’. And Orlaith would smile and light another cigarette, and say, ‘No no no tell me tell me everything.’

  It seemed they hadn’t been talking for very long, but it was four in the morning already, and people were starting to leave the party

  That’s when Stevie noticed the two girls in the corner of the room. They were floundering, their feet like mice stuck in a glue trap, their mouths the startled O’s of demented carol singers, their hands reaching, reaching for something only they could see – some invisible tormentor hovering in mid-air.

  ‘Oh no, oh no, oh no,’ said one of the girls in a dull unblinking monotone.

  A stocky man with a shaved head and meaty arms looked at the girls and laughed. He smoked a joint, and passed it to the even larger man who stood silently grinning at his side.

  A woman with peroxide-blonde hair and black roots was pointing at the two girls. ‘He gave them ketamine, Walshy!’ she shrieked, nudging the small weasely-looking man who stood beside her. ‘They thought it was coke.’ She threw back her head and cackled. ‘I can’t believe you did that, Pajo! You’re some bollocks.’ Walshy laughed along with her in a high-pitched squeal.

  ‘I never said it was coke, Jacqui,’ shrugged Pajo, smirking to himself.

  And even though empathy filled Stevie’s every pore, she could feel nothing but revulsion for Jacqui and Pajo and their posse of friends who were grouped beside the two girls like an ugly pack of hyenas. It was like they had sucked all of the air out of the room. Stevie could feel her love buzz start to cave in on itself.

  She turned to Orlaith, who was staring at the girls. ‘Ah God, Stevie. Look at them.’

  ‘I know. It’s fucking horrible, but there’s nothing we can do. They’ll just have to wait until it wears off.’

  ‘I took that stuff once.’ Orlaith shook her head. ‘Never again.’

  ‘Do you fancy a glass of wine?’ asked Stevie. ‘I’ve a bottle in my bag around here somewhere.’

  ‘Oh my God, yes. Let’s have a drink.’ Orlaith jumped up from her seat. They made their way through the room of people, faces dripping with sweat, to search for a bottle opener in the kitchen.

  *

  Kavanagh sat at his kitchen table, rolling a joint and watching Dan pacing up and down the length of the tiny room, like a caged zoo animal.

  ‘Did you see them in there?’ Dan said in an urgent voice to Kavanagh and Gary. ‘It’s yer man, Pajo and his sidekicks.’

  Gary nodded. ‘Walshy and Hulk.’

  ‘Yeah, Little and Large … or Little and Fucking Humongous.’

  ‘I know, I know,’ said Gary, ‘fucking ropey buzz. Look, could you … I don’t know … go out there and tell him the party’s over or something?’

  Dan shook his head. ‘You want me to tell Pajo Donnellan to leave? Are you fucking mental?’

  Gary shrugged. ‘Yeah, I suppose we can’t really do that. We could…. Ah, fuck! I don’t know. Ropey buzz, man.’

  ‘Fucking tell me about it. I’m not going back out there ‘till they leave. We’ll be stuck in here for the night. Here, give us a smoke, Gar.’

  Kavanagh wasn’t thrilled to hear that Pajo was in their flat either, but he had no intention of drawing attention to the fact. He smoked his joint and silently looked around the kitchen, his unwitting prison. Two girls were riffling through the kitchen drawers, talking away to each other a mile a minute.

  ‘Can I help you there, ladies?’ said Dan to the girls.

  ‘Oh, do you live here?’ said the dark-haired girl.‘Great party! I’m Orlaith and this is Stevie. We’re just looking for a wine opener.’

  ‘I’m Dan. Yes, I do live here,’ Dan smiled, ‘for my sins.’

  Orlaith looked at him blankly.

  ‘Right,’ said Dan. ‘Anyway, a wine opener. Yeah, there must be one around here somewhere. Here, Gary, where’s the wine opener?’

  Gary plucked something from the sink and held it out, ‘Here,’ he said.

  Dan shook his head. ‘Gary, that’s a fucking potato peeler.’

  Gary looked at his hand in surprise. ‘Oh yeah. Sure that’s no good to you. Unless … would you like some potatoes?’

  ‘No, thanks,’ said Orlaith.

  ‘Wait, wait, I have it here,’ said Dan, rooting around in the sink. ‘Here you go, ladies.’ He presented them with a spatula.

  ‘Oh, no. We’re looking for a bottle opener,’ said Orlaith earnestly. ‘But thank you.’

  Gary looked at Dan, shaking his head as they both started laughing.

  Kavanagh stood up and reached for the bottle. ‘Here, give us that. I’ll open it for you.’

  Stevie handed him the bottle wordlessly.

  ‘Saw this on YouTube.’ Kavanagh took off his shoe and put the bottle into the foot-hole, then drew back his arm and banged the shoe off the wall.

  ‘What are ya at?!’ screeched Gary, still holding the potato peeler aloft.

  ‘Yeah right, Kavanagh. That’ll never fuckin’ work,’ said Dan.

  They watched, mesmerised, as, sure enough, with each tap the cork began to edge out of the bottle.

  ‘No way,’ said Stevie.

  Kavanagh looked at her and smiled. ‘Once more,’ he said, keeping his eyes locked on hers as he drew the shoe right back and smashed it with accidental force against the wall.

  ‘Oh, careful,’ said Orlaith, ‘you might break …’.

  As the word ‘break’ left her mouth, the sound of glass breaking filled the kitchen, as though Orlaith had summoned it. Kavanagh’s left hand around the top of the bottle crushed the splintered glass. Red wine spurted onto the floor. Still staring at Stevie, it was only when the cold liquid seeped into his sock that Kavanagh noticed the br
oken glass.

  ‘Oh fuck!’

  ‘Are you okay?’ asked Stevie, as Kavanagh looked from his foot to the remnants of the broken bottle in his hand and dropped the remainder to the floor. ‘Jesus!’

  Blood poured from his hand and splashed onto the tiled floor, where it mixed with red wine. Gary let out a girlish screech. They all stood in silence staring at the blood dripping from Kavanagh’s arm for what seemed like an eternity. Stevie stepped forward and took Kavanagh by the arm and led him to the sink to rinse off the flecks of glass. His blood flowed into the sink and seeped into a used teabag that was sitting beside the plughole. Stevie could feel the throb of his pulse, and she glimpsed the tattoos on his arm, the pictures distorted under the flow of water.

  ‘I think you need to go to the hospital,’ Orlaith grimaced as she gestured towards Kavanagh’s arm.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Stevie. ‘I think so too.’ The clean towel she had wrapped around the wound just moments ago was already soaked red. There were spatters of red on Stevie’s white top that could have been blood or wine.

  ‘Ah no, it’ll be grand,’ said Kavanagh.

  ‘Seriously, you look like you need stitches. Jesus, it’s a shame.’ Orlaith shook her head.

  Kavanagh looked at her in confusion. ‘It’s all right. I’m not gonna die.’

  ‘I mean it’s a shame about the wine.’

  ‘I’ll come with you,’ said Stevie, ‘to the hospital.’

  ‘Would you do that?’

  ‘Sure. Let me just grab my bag.’

  *

  As Kavanagh stood by the door, waiting for the girl and trying not to drip blood on the floor, he felt his heart sink as he saw Pajo approach.

  ‘Well, well, if it isn’t my old pal Joe Kavanagh,’ said Pajo. Hearing his full name pronounced like that gave Kavanagh the stomach-lurching feeling of his youth when it could mean only one thing: he was in trouble. His insides curdled.

  ‘What brings you here?’ said Pajo.

  ‘I live here,’ said Kavanagh.

  ‘Really?’ smirked Pajo, ‘Well, that’s good to know. Very good indeed.’