by Sorcha Bowe, St Flannan’s College, Ennis

They say I have a social phobia. By “they” I mean the nine or so people I have become acquainted with in the course of my isolated existence. From the semi-permanence of my bedroom, I can often discern them sitting around their table, talking in hushed tones. I imagine that they are talking about me. I used to be torn between the frustration of not knowing, and the fear of what I may come to know. Seemingly, this proved quite the complication in the undertaking of daily affairs. The paranoia has since left me, and these days I am content with whatever activities they undertake, as long as they protect me. I suspect that this change of attitude has something to do with the needles they stick in me while I sleep. Well, while I pretend to sleep. They probably assume I am unaware of these night-time proceedings. The truth is, I am indifferent as to what they do to me. Anyway, I would rather endure it than talk about it, or talk about anything for that matter.

Every morning, for the past nineteen years, I have made the expedition out of the safety of my personal prison, to retrieve the newspaper from the mailbox. The rusty structure stands at the end of an unkempt lawn, through which a cobbled pavement extends from the door to the garden fence. This is the only landscape I have ever known. I trek these arduous meters through sunshine, rainfall, wind and snow. If it weren’t for my morning routine, I doubt I would have any knowledge of the seasons. My hands, strangers to the day, are alabaster white against the texture of the Daily Mail. The headlines escape me in my illiterate juncture, but I enjoy the pictures nonetheless. The stoic “politicians” in black suits, the glossy “movie stars” in glittering gowns, the cockeyed “serial killers”…well, they don’t really think to dress up for shots. The only people my eyes ever survey are on paper or television screen, apart from my family or the occasional visitor.

This morning, I stop in my tracks. At the foot of the garden there stand three men. Three dark, sinister figures, silhouetted against the pink watercolour haze of the morning sky. The panic immediately initiates as fear overwhelms me. On the occasional instance when I am confronted with strangers, my initial impulse is, of course, to retreat to the sanctuary of the house. These giants were too quick for me, however, and for a moment the unfamiliar thrill of human contact seems to paralyze me as one of them seizes my scrawny arm. Pain. That ancient foe. The stoutest of the four now holds a filthy rifle to my head as his accomplices haul my featherweight away. Their foul hands, stained with the infamy of day-to-day deeds, are all over me, defiling my cotton pyjamas. I yearn for my house, my sanctuary, my precious prison, which is disappearing away from me as they drag me into their truck.
“Al, we haven’t got much time. Eamon wants us to take this guy out before O’Dempsey gets wind of things”
“Relax, would you. We’ll have this done and dusted within the hour. Don’t you be worryin’ about O’Dempsey, my lad.”

“Al” is dressed in a black suit and is driving this wretched contraption. I want to ask him if he is a politician. I sit, dumb, in the back seat between the stout lad and his ginger haired ally. I listen detachedly to their conversation, a cacophony of disgust and confusion circulating from the very core of my being. My sensitive self jumps as the truck pulls to an abrupt halt. Al turns to face the back seat.

“Listen, lads, and listen close. I’m going to repeat the procedure one last time before ye head in, so there’ll be absolutely no excuses for mucking it up. As it happens, ye won’t be in any CONDITION to make excuses if ye DO muck it up, capiche?”

Shorty and Ginger nod appropriately. Ye get in, ye blow his head off, ye knock out Silent Bob here, ye meet me in front of the Hub. Remember to wipe the goddam gun before ye leave it. No stalling, no cleaning up, no stopping for a goddam cuppa. Just get the job done.”
“Are you sure he doesn’t know what’s going on Al?” Shorty indicates my cowering frame with a flick of that filthy rifle.
“Definitely. Never been past those gates in his whole goddam life. Don’t utter nothin’ to no one, poor lad. Serious case, like. Probably can’t even understand us.”

Ginger gingerly escorts me out of that vile vehicle and up the narrow staircase of a desolate office building. His grimy fingers release their hold over my mouth as someone’s hearty guffaws echo from below: “What’s he gonna do, Tom, call for help?” Thank you, Shorty. A wave of nostalgia washes over me as a broken needle is illuminated against the graffiti - covered wall. How I long for my prison, and for the stabilizing liquid of lucidity to flow through my veins once again. Home is a distant memory now, as this is the longest I have ever been away.

The room is bizarre. Boxes upon boxes of disused bric-a-brac are discernible in the dim light, propped up against the dusty wooden walls. Walls….how I long for mine…what an odd place for a murder. These people don’t look at all like the killers in the Daily mail. A bandana- clad Shorty is pointing that dirty gun of his at the limp, quivering figure of a man tied to a single chair in the centre of the room. The victim’s face glistens under the hanging bulb, his frenzied moans muffled by duct tape. Ginger Tom looks on in silent apprehension. I am “safe” from my observation point by the wall.
“Any last requests, Farrell?”
The dead-to-be simply persists in his insignificant protest. Beads of glistening sweat merge with the waterworks, streaming down the pallid canvas of his skin. The last thing I hear is the ominous creaking emitted from Shorty’s rifle as he tightens the trigger. Suddenly, the room evaporates into darkness as I am hit with an enormous impact. Fortunately, my descent into slumber is too sudden for any pain to ensue.

I awaken in a small, bare room. The walls are a cold aqua blue, and the only other occupant is a tall policeman. A wooden desk separates me from his hulking demeanour. His hard, cold eyes bore into me, devouring my meagre form, from the ashen blue of my complexion to the bloody stains on my pyjamas. I feel naked, despite my sullied garments. He harshly demands of me how the gun came to be in my possession, spraying flecks of spit from his very mouth onto my wide-eyed visage. I yearn to be safe again, away from prying eyes, bright lights and chilly rooms. I clear my throat.

“Well, officer, I’m afraid you’ve got the wrong individual. I reckon that the Ginger fellow knocked me out with a frying pan of some sort whilst his little friend shot this Farrell. They had planned to plant the gun in my possession to make it look like I had committed the murder. I imagine that they met Al at the Hub afterwards. It’s quite simple really, if you’ll let me explain.”
It was odd hearing my voice for the first time. My accent is a little softer than theirs, what do you know, I must get it from my English father. I proceed to recount everything I had witnessed to the policeman, and almost began to enjoy myself as his expression softened with my narration.

Following some “official proceedings”, the policeman thanked me for my co-operation and returned me to my hallowed home. The police car seemed positively sterile after Al’s dirty old van. My sister met me at the door, and promptly escorted me to my quarters. Relief. How I missed these sturdy walls. I listened, for a while, behind bolted doors to them as they exchanged words of gratitude. Presently, my sister ventured into my bedroom refuge to watch television with me. We sat in habitual silence, until she turned to my huddled form and asked earnestly if I would like chicken for dinner. I was sorry to douse the expectant expression on her face as I nodded my head and indicated my hunger by buoyantly massaging my stomach. It was good to be home.