Chapter 1 - Deco Found A Louis Vutton
I said to myself that it would be the last time I would take this journey. I remembered thinking that I would write a short story based on these two atrocities. I had imagined it to be a quirky narrative where I would guide the reader through two different sides of Dublin. A reader who would have met the budding future leaders of a society's elite shortly before the robust soul and working hand of the same community. Then the joy of discovering that this was a twice daily occurrence for the lucky writer who got to see both spectrums of one city not only every morning but every evening as well . To see both Dublin's gusto and charm embodied in two sets of commuters from different social backgrounds.
But it had been a year since I had taken the two buses consequently and on the morning I was due to collect the final story I was not looking forward to a revisit, brief as it would be, to my old routine.
Alan asked me to meet him at Richmond park. Stick a map of this city in front of me and I would not be able to pick out Richmond park. But I knew how to get there. I used to pass the shed everyday on way to College so taking the 46A to Aston Quay and the 78A to Inchicore was just a formality. The 46A and the 78A. Two buses on the same side of the same small city. One starts where the other one finishes and vice versa. If it were possible for the two of them to hit each other my only wish would be that there were as few survivors as possible.
This was my train of thought as I was waited at the bus stop. The 46A was the most frequent bus in the city so the wait rarely lasted longer than a cigarette. It arrived just as I was lighting a second. I stubbed it out (I had stopped putting them back in the box at this stage), threw money at the driver who, in return, gave me two spiky tickets, one of which I could exchange for fifteen cents in O'Connell street, and sat down upstairs. I do not know why I always sat upstairs. It was basic masochism. I looked at all the prepossessing people seated around me. Young lads in suits wondering if they would ever get the chance to use their Physics or History of Art degrees professionally. Group of girls in tracksuit bottoms discussing the previous weekend's pocket-sized hedonism. Conversations, which consisted of 'I can't believe she scored him, I mean, in 92 of all places' and 'Feng Shui's for people who don't know how to put the toilet seat down', were joined at UCD by intellectual analysis such as 'Why would they put the deadline RIGHT in the middle of rag week, like?'. This was all leading up to the final set of the cacophonous orchestra when business men and women, who found themselves nice little secret parking spaces in Donnybrook, waddled on at Wesley Rugby Club and proclaimed their importance by shouting down their phones at their personal assistants.
Contemplating suicide and choking on the onboard pretentiousness and ignorance, I burst off the bus on Westmoreland Street as if there was a toxic smog on board. The wait on Aston Quay was generally significantly longer than the wait for the 46A and this time was no exception. 'It comes when it likes' was the phrase I most often overheard. When the bus finally arrived I gained more spiky ticket bonus points from the driver and took a seat, upstairs of course. What I used to love about this bus was the that I could smoke of board but that novelty soon wore thin when I would find myself suffocating on heroin fumes. The 78A was bus that knew no limits of indecency. I once saw a man take a shit at one of its bus stops. The general populous of the bus was nowhere near as infuriating as the previous group of passengers but there was always one or two idiots who would came close to equalling the dissonance of the 46A crew. I managed, as I often had before, to find myself in conversation with one such simpleton that morning.
'I mean, Jaysus bleedin' Christ, I couldn't fuckin' believit.' Originally, he had been bothering someone else on the bus but when he caught sight of me, he figured I would love to hear about the latest chapter of his insalubrious existence.
'What the you think, bud? I woke up this mornin' and the bord had legged with the kids and fifty bleedin' quid. I needed that money and she fuckin' knewit I don't know what she thinks she's bleedin' playin' at. She tinks I'm a bleedin muppet but I'm not. What d'you reckon?'
'I don't know.' I replied. 'I'm sure you're not. Sorry I have to get off here.'
I jumped down the stairs on the bus but managed to hear him give me a fond farewell.
'Sure you're only a bleedin' posho. What the fuck do you know?'
Alan had been waiting for me when I arrived. I had always got on quite well with him but I do not think either of us were ever overly concerned with each other or what we thought about anything. I shook his hand and even managed a half smile.
'How are ya, Alan?'
'Grand but maybe I should be asking you that. You lost your job, is that right?'
'Well, I quit. Listen, do you have the story?'
'Eh, yeah, hear it is.' He took a couple of page out of his bag and handed them to me. 'So, I hear you're not with Edel anymore.'
'No I'm not...Sorry Alan I have to go. What do you call it?'
'Sorry...?' I could see on Alan face that he was annoyed at how rude I was being.
'What's the name of the story?'
'Oh.. Deco found a Louis Vutton
'Deco found a Luis Vutton?'
'Yeah..Deco found a Louis Vutton'
Deco found a Louis Vutton handbag. It was just sitting there. "It was jus' bleedin' sittin' dere," he said at Pearce Street Garda Station. He liked the bag but he didn't know why. "Was there anythin' in the fuckin' ting?" his brother asked him when he found out. There wasn't. Deco didn't care because he liked it but he didn't know why. He found it under Molly Malone . He liked Molly Malone and he knew why. He liked looking at her breasts. "She's a nice pair a jugs, eh Deco?" his brother liked to say to him when he cornered Deco and asked him why he was hanging around Dame Street. So there it was behind her cockles and mussels. Behind her cockles and muscles. "Mick's bord's one of them bags. It looks like a bleedin' pencil case."
''Get out of the room, you!" said Deco's da to Deco's brother. Deco was more used to his da saying that to him when he got back from Aherne's and just wanted to spend time with Deco's sister. She was gone now. Deco didn't know where. Deco's da didn't know where. No one knew where. But she was gone now. And so was his ma. Deco missed them. So did his da. His da had always shouted. But now he shouted more. "Right then, ya little bollocks, where'd'ya it take ta'?"
He didn't take it straight away. He looked at it for a while. It interested him. He didn't know why. But it interested him. So he picked it up. "I picked it up and legged it up Grafton Street." "Where to?" Sergeant Lonegan queried. "Up Grafton Street," said Deco "I didn't know where I was going." It's true. He didn't know where he was going. He just grabbed the bag and ran. He didn't know where he would stop. But when he stopped it wasn't on purpose. "I kept runnin' until I whacked inta two bords."
He bumped into two girls all right. And they weren't happy. "Here! Will YOU watch where you're going?" said one as the other tutted. Tut Tut. Deco said nothing. He got up off the ground and ran the other way. "Did you SEE his bag?" said the tutter. "I know," acknowledged her friend, "Not bad for a scanger. Maybe the working class are finally getting some style." "No seriously, Aine, we actually have to call the police. He's obviously stolen the bag."
"Did you apologise to the young ladies?" asked Lonegan. "Nah, I just ran the other way." "Did either of them say anyting to ya?'. "Nah, da, I just ran away." "So where did you go after that?" "I ran back back down Grafton street and past Molly." "Where were you running to? Did you want to see if there was something in the bag? Money or something." "Did you even look in de stupid bleedin' bag to see if there was anyting worth takin' out of it?" "Nah," Deco replied to both men, "I just liked the ting. So I kept runnin' without tinkin'." 'No, you weren't thinking, were you?' said the Sergeant pressing him to continue his story.
Deco turned onto Dame Street. Holding the bag under his arm. Like a rugby ball. He had never played rugby before. But he still could hold onto the bag well as he crossed over the street onto Central park. Deco usually didn't like Temple Bar. It made him feel like a foreigner. But he felt different this time. So he stopped running. He decided to walk around Temple Bar a bit. He and his Louis Vutton. He felt different. People were looking at him strangely. But he didn't care. "Weird, that young lad has a hand bag and he doesn't even look Italian." Deco could sense being noticed for the the first time in his life and he liked it. He never felt like this before. When his ma and sister were at home, all they would do is give out about his da. His brother was only interested in Deco when his felt like taking the piss out of him in front of his mates. But now he felt different. He wasn't sure why. But he knew it had something to do with the pretty bag in his hands. He could have stayed in Temple Bar all day.
"So, How long did ya stay dere lookin' like a fuckin' eejit for?" and ' How long long did you stay there looking like a fuckin' eejit for?" were the interruptions of both men, though at different times. They wanted to bring Deco mind back to the interrogations. Deco responded identically to both of them: "A copper shouted at me from near the bank machine." "Ah, you mean Officer Waldron." The detective nodded to the man in uniform standing beside the door. "The two ladies informed him that you had rudely hit into them and they noticed you were holding an expensive bag so they informed Officer Waldron that there was a potential criminal in the area." Deco didn't think he was a criminal but he knew there was no point in saying anything. There were only three people in the room. Him and two policemen. And policemen had never been nice to him before so he didn't think they were going to begin today. So he continued his story. "Yeah, him. So anyway when I seen him..." "You saw him and did what?". "You seen him and done what?" Deco da also got impatient. When Deco noticed the policemen he knew he was in trouble so he scarpered. "I scarpered, I scarpered." "I scarpered, da I scarpered." Neither men were impressed.
He held it above his head as he ran across The Ha'Penny Bridge. He looked at and smiled. Smiling made Deco forget the other things. It made him forget the noises he heard from other rooms of his house. His da shouting. His mother crying. His brother breaking things. His sister screaming. His mother leaving. His sister leaving. His da shouting. It was white with little pictures. He kept it above his head. He felt like he won something. Achieved something. "Hello, Declan. You seem to be in a bit of a hurry."
It was literally just as he stopped off the bridge that he met Mr Malloy. She was always nice to Deco. "Are you okay Declan? Where did you get that bag?" "I found it." "And where did you find it, Declan?" "Near Molly Malone." "Well Declan, maybe you should put it back." "But I don't wanna'. It's mine. I found it". "Listen Declan, maybe I should talk to your father. How is he these days? Have you heard from your mother?" "That bloody Emir Malloy. She's so fuckin' nosey. It was her that told me ya got inta trouble. She was asking me them same questions here at the doorstep. Nosey auld bitch. Anyway, what did ya do after." "I had to run away, da. That copper was still following me." "So where did you run to next?" Sergeant Lonegan inquired.
Declan ran as fast as he could up Bachelor's Walk. He ran with the Louis Vutton in his hand, hoping he could keep it forever. But he wouldn't keep it forever. The policeman caught up with him and tackled him to the ground. He took the bag from Deco and called a squad car. "He called and squad car and..." Deco broke down crying, "And then...then.. took the bag off me. Next ting I knew I was in Pearce Street talkin' to Sergeant Lonegan. I'm sorry, da, I just like the bag. I'm sor..." "Ah I've had enough of this. Just shut the fuck up ya little shit."
Deco's da picked up Deco and threw him across the room. He kicked him in the shoulder then picked him up again and punched him across the face. "Ya tink ya can jus' embarrass me like dat. I had Emir Malloy at the door. I had the Garda station callin' me tellin me to pic' ya up. Stand up straight and take the beatin' ya deserve." "No, please da, I'm sorry. Please da stop it hurts..." Deco knew this time it would be worse. He didn't know why he knew but he knew that this time he would not get over another beating from his father.
"You must realise that just because you like the look of something does not make it OK to just up and take it," the Sergeant wasn't happy. "I know I'm sorry. I won't do it again." "Yes. I've heard that plenty of times before. I should really put you under charges. Stealing. Running away from an officer. You should really being looking at a proper punishment for this. But I'm feeling a bit soft today. So I'll let you go. You're father's been informed. He's waiting outside. I'll let him deal with you. You should count yourself lucky."
Rubbish. And too short. I was only just off the 78A. I walked by the mullusk saleswoman alluded to in Alan's story and onto to Nassau Street to complete the final quarter of my round trip to finish off the whole ghastly experience of the last year. A year that has seen me grow to detest this ridiculous characterless city. I could now now leave it all behind me and get out here for good. I felt like I was ridding myself of some hideous disease and that I could finally restart my life.
I said to myself that it would be the last time I would take this journey. I remembered thinking that I would write a short story based on these two atrocities. I had imagined it to be a quirky narrative where I would guide the reader through two different sides of Dublin. A reader who would have met the budding future leaders of a society's elite shortly before the robust soul and working hand of the same community. Then the joy of discovering that this was a twice daily occurrence for the lucky writer who got to see both spectrums of one city not only every morning but every evening as well . To see both Dublin's gusto and charm embodied in two sets of commuters from different social backgrounds.
But it had been a year since I had taken the two buses consequently and on the morning I was due to collect the final story I was not looking forward to a revisit, brief as it would be, to my old routine.
Alan asked me to meet him at Richmond park. Stick a map of this city in front of me and I would not be able to pick out Richmond park. But I knew how to get there. I used to pass the shed everyday on way to College so taking the 46A to Aston Quay and the 78A to Inchicore was just a formality. The 46A and the 78A. Two buses on the same side of the same small city. One starts where the other one finishes and vice versa. If it were possible for the two of them to hit each other my only wish would be that there were as few survivors as possible.
This was my train of thought as I was waited at the bus stop. The 46A was the most frequent bus in the city so the wait rarely lasted longer than a cigarette. It arrived just as I was lighting a second. I stubbed it out (I had stopped putting them back in the box at this stage), threw money at the driver who, in return, gave me two spiky tickets, one of which I could exchange for fifteen cents in O'Connell street, and sat down upstairs. I do not know why I always sat upstairs. It was basic masochism. I looked at all the prepossessing people seated around me. Young lads in suits wondering if they would ever get the chance to use their Physics or History of Art degrees professionally. Group of girls in tracksuit bottoms discussing the previous weekend's pocket-sized hedonism. Conversations, which consisted of 'I can't believe she scored him, I mean, in 92 of all places' and 'Feng Shui's for people who don't know how to put the toilet seat down', were joined at UCD by intellectual analysis such as 'Why would they put the deadline RIGHT in the middle of rag week, like?'. This was all leading up to the final set of the cacophonous orchestra when business men and women, who found themselves nice little secret parking spaces in Donnybrook, waddled on at Wesley Rugby Club and proclaimed their importance by shouting down their phones at their personal assistants.
Contemplating suicide and choking on the onboard pretentiousness and ignorance, I burst off the bus on Westmoreland Street as if there was a toxic smog on board. The wait on Aston Quay was generally significantly longer than the wait for the 46A and this time was no exception. 'It comes when it likes' was the phrase I most often overheard. When the bus finally arrived I gained more spiky ticket bonus points from the driver and took a seat, upstairs of course. What I used to love about this bus was the that I could smoke of board but that novelty soon wore thin when I would find myself suffocating on heroin fumes. The 78A was bus that knew no limits of indecency. I once saw a man take a shit at one of its bus stops. The general populous of the bus was nowhere near as infuriating as the previous group of passengers but there was always one or two idiots who would came close to equalling the dissonance of the 46A crew. I managed, as I often had before, to find myself in conversation with one such simpleton that morning.
'I mean, Jaysus bleedin' Christ, I couldn't fuckin' believit.' Originally, he had been bothering someone else on the bus but when he caught sight of me, he figured I would love to hear about the latest chapter of his insalubrious existence.
'What the you think, bud? I woke up this mornin' and the bord had legged with the kids and fifty bleedin' quid. I needed that money and she fuckin' knewit I don't know what she thinks she's bleedin' playin' at. She tinks I'm a bleedin muppet but I'm not. What d'you reckon?'
'I don't know.' I replied. 'I'm sure you're not. Sorry I have to get off here.'
I jumped down the stairs on the bus but managed to hear him give me a fond farewell.
'Sure you're only a bleedin' posho. What the fuck do you know?'
Alan had been waiting for me when I arrived. I had always got on quite well with him but I do not think either of us were ever overly concerned with each other or what we thought about anything. I shook his hand and even managed a half smile.
'How are ya, Alan?'
'Grand but maybe I should be asking you that. You lost your job, is that right?'
'Well, I quit. Listen, do you have the story?'
'Eh, yeah, hear it is.' He took a couple of page out of his bag and handed them to me. 'So, I hear you're not with Edel anymore.'
'No I'm not...Sorry Alan I have to go. What do you call it?'
'Sorry...?' I could see on Alan face that he was annoyed at how rude I was being.
'What's the name of the story?'
'Oh.. Deco found a Louis Vutton
'Deco found a Luis Vutton?'
'Yeah..Deco found a Louis Vutton'
Deco found a Louis Vutton handbag. It was just sitting there. "It was jus' bleedin' sittin' dere," he said at Pearce Street Garda Station. He liked the bag but he didn't know why. "Was there anythin' in the fuckin' ting?" his brother asked him when he found out. There wasn't. Deco didn't care because he liked it but he didn't know why. He found it under Molly Malone . He liked Molly Malone and he knew why. He liked looking at her breasts. "She's a nice pair a jugs, eh Deco?" his brother liked to say to him when he cornered Deco and asked him why he was hanging around Dame Street. So there it was behind her cockles and mussels. Behind her cockles and muscles. "Mick's bord's one of them bags. It looks like a bleedin' pencil case."
''Get out of the room, you!" said Deco's da to Deco's brother. Deco was more used to his da saying that to him when he got back from Aherne's and just wanted to spend time with Deco's sister. She was gone now. Deco didn't know where. Deco's da didn't know where. No one knew where. But she was gone now. And so was his ma. Deco missed them. So did his da. His da had always shouted. But now he shouted more. "Right then, ya little bollocks, where'd'ya it take ta'?"
He didn't take it straight away. He looked at it for a while. It interested him. He didn't know why. But it interested him. So he picked it up. "I picked it up and legged it up Grafton Street." "Where to?" Sergeant Lonegan queried. "Up Grafton Street," said Deco "I didn't know where I was going." It's true. He didn't know where he was going. He just grabbed the bag and ran. He didn't know where he would stop. But when he stopped it wasn't on purpose. "I kept runnin' until I whacked inta two bords."
He bumped into two girls all right. And they weren't happy. "Here! Will YOU watch where you're going?" said one as the other tutted. Tut Tut. Deco said nothing. He got up off the ground and ran the other way. "Did you SEE his bag?" said the tutter. "I know," acknowledged her friend, "Not bad for a scanger. Maybe the working class are finally getting some style." "No seriously, Aine, we actually have to call the police. He's obviously stolen the bag."
"Did you apologise to the young ladies?" asked Lonegan. "Nah, I just ran the other way." "Did either of them say anyting to ya?'. "Nah, da, I just ran away." "So where did you go after that?" "I ran back back down Grafton street and past Molly." "Where were you running to? Did you want to see if there was something in the bag? Money or something." "Did you even look in de stupid bleedin' bag to see if there was anyting worth takin' out of it?" "Nah," Deco replied to both men, "I just liked the ting. So I kept runnin' without tinkin'." 'No, you weren't thinking, were you?' said the Sergeant pressing him to continue his story.
Deco turned onto Dame Street. Holding the bag under his arm. Like a rugby ball. He had never played rugby before. But he still could hold onto the bag well as he crossed over the street onto Central park. Deco usually didn't like Temple Bar. It made him feel like a foreigner. But he felt different this time. So he stopped running. He decided to walk around Temple Bar a bit. He and his Louis Vutton. He felt different. People were looking at him strangely. But he didn't care. "Weird, that young lad has a hand bag and he doesn't even look Italian." Deco could sense being noticed for the the first time in his life and he liked it. He never felt like this before. When his ma and sister were at home, all they would do is give out about his da. His brother was only interested in Deco when his felt like taking the piss out of him in front of his mates. But now he felt different. He wasn't sure why. But he knew it had something to do with the pretty bag in his hands. He could have stayed in Temple Bar all day.
"So, How long did ya stay dere lookin' like a fuckin' eejit for?" and ' How long long did you stay there looking like a fuckin' eejit for?" were the interruptions of both men, though at different times. They wanted to bring Deco mind back to the interrogations. Deco responded identically to both of them: "A copper shouted at me from near the bank machine." "Ah, you mean Officer Waldron." The detective nodded to the man in uniform standing beside the door. "The two ladies informed him that you had rudely hit into them and they noticed you were holding an expensive bag so they informed Officer Waldron that there was a potential criminal in the area." Deco didn't think he was a criminal but he knew there was no point in saying anything. There were only three people in the room. Him and two policemen. And policemen had never been nice to him before so he didn't think they were going to begin today. So he continued his story. "Yeah, him. So anyway when I seen him..." "You saw him and did what?". "You seen him and done what?" Deco da also got impatient. When Deco noticed the policemen he knew he was in trouble so he scarpered. "I scarpered, I scarpered." "I scarpered, da I scarpered." Neither men were impressed.
He held it above his head as he ran across The Ha'Penny Bridge. He looked at and smiled. Smiling made Deco forget the other things. It made him forget the noises he heard from other rooms of his house. His da shouting. His mother crying. His brother breaking things. His sister screaming. His mother leaving. His sister leaving. His da shouting. It was white with little pictures. He kept it above his head. He felt like he won something. Achieved something. "Hello, Declan. You seem to be in a bit of a hurry."
It was literally just as he stopped off the bridge that he met Mr Malloy. She was always nice to Deco. "Are you okay Declan? Where did you get that bag?" "I found it." "And where did you find it, Declan?" "Near Molly Malone." "Well Declan, maybe you should put it back." "But I don't wanna'. It's mine. I found it". "Listen Declan, maybe I should talk to your father. How is he these days? Have you heard from your mother?" "That bloody Emir Malloy. She's so fuckin' nosey. It was her that told me ya got inta trouble. She was asking me them same questions here at the doorstep. Nosey auld bitch. Anyway, what did ya do after." "I had to run away, da. That copper was still following me." "So where did you run to next?" Sergeant Lonegan inquired.
Declan ran as fast as he could up Bachelor's Walk. He ran with the Louis Vutton in his hand, hoping he could keep it forever. But he wouldn't keep it forever. The policeman caught up with him and tackled him to the ground. He took the bag from Deco and called a squad car. "He called and squad car and..." Deco broke down crying, "And then...then.. took the bag off me. Next ting I knew I was in Pearce Street talkin' to Sergeant Lonegan. I'm sorry, da, I just like the bag. I'm sor..." "Ah I've had enough of this. Just shut the fuck up ya little shit."
Deco's da picked up Deco and threw him across the room. He kicked him in the shoulder then picked him up again and punched him across the face. "Ya tink ya can jus' embarrass me like dat. I had Emir Malloy at the door. I had the Garda station callin' me tellin me to pic' ya up. Stand up straight and take the beatin' ya deserve." "No, please da, I'm sorry. Please da stop it hurts..." Deco knew this time it would be worse. He didn't know why he knew but he knew that this time he would not get over another beating from his father.
"You must realise that just because you like the look of something does not make it OK to just up and take it," the Sergeant wasn't happy. "I know I'm sorry. I won't do it again." "Yes. I've heard that plenty of times before. I should really put you under charges. Stealing. Running away from an officer. You should really being looking at a proper punishment for this. But I'm feeling a bit soft today. So I'll let you go. You're father's been informed. He's waiting outside. I'll let him deal with you. You should count yourself lucky."
Rubbish. And too short. I was only just off the 78A. I walked by the mullusk saleswoman alluded to in Alan's story and onto to Nassau Street to complete the final quarter of my round trip to finish off the whole ghastly experience of the last year. A year that has seen me grow to detest this ridiculous characterless city. I could now now leave it all behind me and get out here for good. I felt like I was ridding myself of some hideous disease and that I could finally restart my life.
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