Albert Peterson: The Hibernia Strain

“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.