The Hibernia Strain

by Peterson, Albert

  Without attracting the attention of the psychos, who are now kneeling over their victim; holding him down, I help Emma slide herself out my door. We proceed to back away from the scene, our eyes on the duo the entire time.

  We certainly can’t help the poor bastard now, even with the numbers being two against two. Or maybe I’m just too much of a chicken-shit to go to his aid after what I’ve just witnessed.

  We slink away. When we’re at a safe distance, Emma lets out a petrified jumble of words. I can’t really make out much of what she’s saying though. I stop and grab her. The alarmed look on her face frightens me, although, I’m sure my face must express a similar, horrified look.

  I know for a fact that we’re close to where Emma lives. I convince her to lead us there, explaining that we’ll ring the Gardai once we’re safe inside.

  She leads on, choking the tears back. It only takes us seven minutes of fear fuelled sprinting to get to her front door. She fumbles her keys into the lock and bursts in.

  “That was Toma,” she exclaims.

  “Who’s Toma?” I enquire.

  “She’s a Lithuanian girl from my college course. I only spoke to her this morning. She was going to visit her grandmother in the old folk’s home. What happened to her?”

  She looks at me with utter disbelief. I have no answer, so I remain quiet, take out my smart phone and dial 999 for the emergency services. It rings twice before a woman’s voice answers, “Emergency service how may I help?”

  “Yes hello, I’d like to report an assault,” I explain.

  She continues to take all the necessary details before telling me to stay where I am, and a Garda car will come to visit us at some stage, although she adds, “It might be awhile as there’s an overwhelming amount of calls in tonight.” I hang up and put my phone down on the kitchen table.

  Emma is on the couch in the sitting room. Elbows on her knees, with her head embedded in her hands. I amble over and sit down beside her. I inform her as to what the operator said, and she agrees that waiting here isn’t just the best option, but it’s our only option really.

  She decides to get up to make some coffee. I slump back on the couch and take in my new surroundings. Typical student digs. A bit of a dump with minimal furnishing, a chunky outdated television, sits in front of me adding to the clichéd student cheapness. It’s very neat and tidy nonetheless.

  Emma returns after a few minutes, sits down again and hands me a steaming cup before nestling in close to me. She’s also had time to change into more casual wear instead of the skimpy, sexy outfit from earlier. I can feel she’s still shivering with nerves.

  I take one look at the mug and shudder. I don’t drink coffee. It repulses me. The bitter taste of the brew insults my taste buds. I take a sip so as not to offend her and then place it down on a coffee table. She does likewise and then rests her head on my shoulder.

  The Gardai will hopefully be here soon, so I encourage her to rest her eyes. She places a delicate kiss on my cheek before getting more comfortable.

  It’s so late at this stage that there are slight signs of red beginning to streak across the horizon. It’s the beginning of a new day. What on earth is it going to hold in store for us?

  2

  Rays of sunlight have begun to shine in the window. I watch as they slowly creep along the faded paint of the apartment walls, progressing steadily until they flicker in my eyes causing me to squint.

  Emma dozed off some time ago. Her head’s now resting on my lap. A slight, damp patch of drool has seeped from the corner of her mouth onto the crotch of my trousers. I can’t help but hope she doesn’t wake up and think that it’s something else.

  Its two hours since I rang the Gardai, but there’s no sign of them still. They must all be busy putting a dampener on the mini riot we started. I let out a groan at the thought of it. A groan, that just so happens to be loud enough to stir Emma from her sleep.

  “What was that?” she asks as she sits up and stretches out her neck and shoulders before looking at me and noticing the wet area on my jeans.

  “Oh,” she remarks while shrivelling up her nose, at what she deems to have been a groan of pleasure.

  “No, no no,” I interrupt, “it’s not what you think.”

  She smirks at me and exclaims her relief, “Phew, I’d be a little disappointed if that was all ya had.”

  I’m taken aback by her cheekiness but manage to repay her smile with one of my own.

  “Still no Guards huh?” she questions, while looking at her phone, choosing to ignore the several messages she’s received from her worried friends no doubt.

  “No sign yet.”

  “Well that’s a pain in the face isn’t it,” she complains.

  She grabs the TV remote and switches it on. It takes a few moments to warm up before displaying any images. She flicks through the multitude of early morning kids shows until she lands on the news.

  “Let’s see if we get a mention,” she says jokingly.

  It’s hard to ignore the fact that she seems less upset and helpless then she was last night. It’s like she’s more in control and has an attitude of; it can’t be helped, so let’s just get on with it. This surprises me a little after seeing how shook up she was over the Toma girl last night.

  We both stare at the screen in anticipation of last nights’ incidences flashing up in front of us. Instead, the news reader informs us of a variety of violent altercations, which took place, during the night. Each occurred in different places in the west side of the city. Yet, all were close to the same area where Emma was attacked, with the exception of a few which were dotted elsewhere around the city.

  There’s not a lot of information, except that the attacks were all carried out in a highly aggressive manner.

  A press conference with the Garda commissioner doesn’t shed any extra light on the reasons for the vicious sounding outbursts except that several arrests were made, and many people were hospitalised.

  “Well that explains why they haven’t come to us yet I suppose. Sounds like they have their hands full,” I say, not taking my eyes off the screen.

  “We’re just gonna have to sit tight for the time being so?” Emma suggests more as a statement than a question.

  I can feel her eyes examining the side of my face, so I take a few seconds before turning to look at her.

  “You should go to bed and get some proper sleep. You look awfully tired. I’ll stay up and wait for them to arrive”.

  “Are you sure you don’t mind?” she enquires.

  “No, it’s fine. I’m usually up this early anyhow,” I lie.

  “Ok then.” She yawns as she stands up and stretches before shuffling off towards her room. As she reaches the door, she turns to me and offers me a sleepy smile.

  “If you’re hungry help yourself to whatever you can find”.

  “Thanks,” I reply as I wait for her to close the bedroom door before turning my attention to the TV screen again.

  The Garda guy is asking for any witnesses or anyone with information to come forward. I allow myself a sarcastic sneer at his expense. There are two witnesses right here, which they know about, but don’t seem in any rush to get to. Typical.

  The newscaster moves on to a different story about parliament in Britain, passing a motion to make contributions to farmers, who suffered financial loss during the ovine culling last February. Boring and off topic!

  My attention quickly drifts away. I take out my phone. No messages of concern like Emma had. Not that I was expecting any.

  It takes a second for me to realise I don’t have any coverage. This is strange as I always have full coverage in the city. Maybe this apartment is in a weak signal area. No, wait. I rang the Gardai earlier with no reception problems. What a nuisance! No network coverage also means I can’t use the Internet.

  I try turning it off and on again but to no avail. I slip the phone back into my pocket and decide it’ll probably fix itself after awhile.

 
I pull off my shoes and leave them neatly to one side. Next, I position two cushions against the armrest of the couch and then lie down and get comfortable. That’s one benefit of not being overly tall. It makes it easier to turn a couch into a makeshift bed, that doesn’t break your back.

  As I lie on my side, I gaze once again at the TV. I have a million thoughts running through my head, yet I’m unable to concentrate on any one of them.

  The noise of the TV starts to become distant and I can feel flickers of sleepiness descend upon me. I need to fight them off. The Gardai might come knocking, and I won’t hear them. My eyelids tremble with the heaviness.

  I’m about to nod off but manage to shake my head abruptly to wake myself up a bit. Take that tiredness! Matt one, sleep nil.

  I wake to the sound of a solemn voice on the television. Damn it, I fell asleep after all. I take a quick look at my phone. Through groggy eyes, I see that I still don’t have coverage. I was asleep for nearly two hours. The time is now ten AM.

  My attention is drawn to the still serious sounding reporter on the screen. He’s standing on a street that’s near the city centre. In the background, I make out multiple Garda vans parked everywhere. There are lots of officers, clad in riot gear, lined up across the street too.

  The reporter is almost shouting at the camera to make himself heard over the deafening noise coming from further up the street.

  I look on in distress as he tells us viewers about violent clashes, which broke out, earlier in the morning, having now erupted into chaotic mayhem. A group of people apparently started attacking anyone and everyone that came within range.

  The Gardai now seemingly have the mob cordoned off on one section of the street. The reporter continues, “They seem to be now concentrating their violent conduct towards the Gardai themselves.”

  He’s mid sentence when the cameraman drops his camera, followed by him dropping his microphone and making a run for it. At first I don’t understand why, but the discarded camera then reveals images, of the Garda line being breached and the unruly horde charging down the street before it cuts back to the studio.

  A surprised and obviously shocked presenter tries to compose herself, stuttering and being generally unsure as what to do next, means the news is swiftly cut to a commercial break.

  I speedily get up and barge into Emma’s room without knocking, shouting, “Wake up,” as I go. To my misfortune she already has gotten up and is getting dressed. She doesn’t have time to pull her bra up fully before I get a look. I quickly turn around and march right out the door again, apologising profusely as I go.

  Emma follows me out a few moments later.

  “Are you mentally defunct or is there something else wrong with you that you don’t know how to knock.” I blush intensely, but it fades as she changes her tone and asks me what exactly was so important?

  Like a scolded child I point towards the television screen, which once again has returned to the news. The Garda commissioner from the earlier press conference is once again giving a speech. We magnetically move towards the couch and sit down shoulder to shoulder.

  “We are urging people to stay well clear of the areas affected. Extensive damage has been caused to shops, cars as well as many casualties. Extra Garda resources are being drafted into help deal with the problem, and we hope to have the situation under control soon.”

  When asked what sparked off the hostility he answers;

  “As of yet we are unsure why the fighting broke out. There were no protests due to be held today or any kind of marches that may have gone out of control. At the moment, we are still looking into whether or not it is linked with the public brawling that occurred last night. I would like iterate once again that people need to comply with the Gardai and stay away from the areas affected.”

  By now Emma, who has coverage, is on her phone and is logged into Facebook. She swipes down the screen, scrolling through the various posts. Commenting on some and replying to messages from friends.

  Her face drops the more she reads. I peek in. Some people have posted pictures of the bedlam. Some are quite disturbing; people being mauled and cars on fire.

  Some comments are from people in the hospital who just managed to escape with minor injuries from the fiendish attackers.

  I freeze up as I look at one picture in particular. Someone has managed to get a close up of one of the attackers. He has the same pale characteristics as the guys from last night. Is this all somehow connected?

  “What the hell is going on out there?” Emma asks me.

  “I wish I knew, but I’m sure the authorities will sort it out. I mean what’s the worst that can happen, right?”

  “I hope your right,” she answers.

  “Of course I am.”

  “I suppose there won’t be any sign of the Gardai coming here anytime soon then. I know you probably want to get home but would you mind staying a little longer?” Emma asks.

  “Yea I guess I could manage that. If you feed me,” I suggest jokingly, changing the subject, partly because I’m hungry, partly because Emma’s hot and partly because I don’t fancy trekking across town with all the shit going on.

  3

  I lean back on the hind legs of the chair and pat my stomach. Emma kept her end of the bargain. A homemade pizza whipped up from scratch followed by dessert of pancakes, topped with blueberries and maple syrup. She’s actually pretty good in the kitchen. That’s another positive attribute of hers for me to add to the list.

  We had a good chit chat over dinner. I found out she has no brothers or sisters. Her mother is a doctor and her father a surgeon. Both are currently on holiday in France.

  She has a really easy going personality rounded off with a sunny disposition. Pretty much everything I had expected from meeting her last night. And the fact that she doesn’t have a boyfriend is the cherry on top.

  I look across the table. Emma is running her thumb along the rim of her plate gathering up some syrup before proceeding to lick it off. She catches me watching and with her thumb still in her mouth she mumbles, “What?”

  I devise a plan to make a move on her.

  “Fancy watching a movie?” I enquire, hoping for an accepting reply.

  “Sure, why not. There’s bound to be something on the TV.”

  Excellent step one was successful.

  We quickly tidy up the dishes, go into the sitting room and plop ourselves down on the couch. The day is flying by so quickly. Its six PM already and the Gardai still haven’t shown up. I’m starting to doubt they will at all. This is a good thing. It makes me feel a little less worried about us getting in trouble.

  Emma powers on the television with the remote but gets nothing but static. She flicks through all of the Irish channels in order. All display the same snowiness. This is very odd indeed, but I quickly dismiss it as the British channels are working.

  We don’t make it past the first channel however, as the images cause us both to freeze on the spot. I’d be forgiven for mistaking the scenes of carnage on display as being those from a horror movie. They are, in fact, a live feed from the evening news.

  It’s no longer just the Gardai involved. The army is now on the scene too. However, despite the reinforcements, it looks like they’re fighting a losing battle.

  I can’t help but be reminded somewhat of scenes from years gone past, of the violence spawned from the troubles in Northern Ireland between the Irish Republican Army and Ulster Volunteer Forces.

  News helicopters beam back images of grotesque ongoing assaults on soldiers. In return, the soldiers are shooting back tear gas, and what I imagine are rubber bullets.

  The reporters are trying to reason with each other what exactly is happening. In truth, it’s obvious they don’t really have a clue.

  The banner scrolling across the bottom of the screen reads, “Riots reach chaotic levels in Ireland.” I can’t help thinking this can’t be real. What I’m watching just can’t be happening.

  It’s too cra
zy, but there it is in full colour on the screen in front of me. There’s bloodshed and anarchy unfolding on a dumbfounding scale.

  I look at Emma. She’s watching the screen in silence, mesmerised. I don’t say a word.

  What’s the worst that can happen? Things are a bit out of hand. It’ll pass, right? The chokehold of the ongoing recession has probably finally gone too far, and people are just venting their anger. We don’t need to worry, we’re plenty safe here.

  Without warning, Emma pulls out her phone and states that she’s ringing her parents to let them know she’s ok. She dials the number and lifts her phone to her ear. I can hear the ringing from the earpiece until it goes to voicemail.

  She hangs up and rings again. She gets the voicemail again, except this time she leaves a friendly message saying, “Hi Mom. Just a quick call to let ye know I‘m fine, and I hope the holiday is going well. Chat soon. Love you.”

  She didn’t mention anything about the trouble brewing outside. I suppose since they’re on holidays maybe they haven’t even heard about the riots. There’s no point in giving them undue reason to worry.

  I can see that Emma is a tad upset. I hope she isn’t worried about the riot because I’ve convinced myself that it’s not going to affect us.

  Getting up from her seat, she switches the TV off, walks over to the window and proceeds to stare blankly out at the late evening sky.

  Unsure what to do in the awkward silence, I decide to join her.

  Looking at the streets outside, you would never tell that such trouble was going on just a few kilometres away. There are people going about their business as usual.

  The sky is dark with clouds, and it’s threatening to rain. Damn unpredictable Irish weather, it can never make its mind up.