Albert Peterson: The Hibernia Strain

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.

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 crazy, 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.

“I don’t fancy that movie anymore if that’s ok,” Emma breaks the silence, taking my hand and leading me in the direction of her bedroom.

I didn’t have a step two planned, but it looks like I didn’t need it after all.

She opens the door and in we go. The curtains are pulled tight, but there’s just enough light still penetrating through the material, to illuminate the room in a dull hue.

We get to the bed, and Emma sits me down first then lies me back before kneeling over me. She rests her left hand on the bed beside my right shoulder to steady herself and with the other she runs her fingers through my hair, all the time gazing at my face.

I rest my hands on her hips, and she takes this as a signal to begin kissing. Her pouting lips feel so soft and full against mine. A delectable warm feeling that is only made better by the sensually erratic movement of her tongue in my mouth.

I run my hands up and down her back, and as the kissing becomes more passionate I get bold enough to chance putting them under her top. She doesn’t complain.

The feeling of my hands on her skin draws a breath of pleasure from her lips.

I grab her hips again but this time I run my hands along her sides and up her ribcage until I reach her bra.

Instantly she breaks away from kissing and kneels up. Aw crap, my busy little hands have gone too far. I find myself to be wrong as she unhooks her bra and pulls her top off exposing her impressive cleavage.

I just stare stunned and in awe. She smiles and wrestles my top off me before once again kneeling over me and continuing kissing.

With her breasts pressed against me, I can’t help but get a full blown erection. That of course combined with the fact that her free hand has wandered down the front of my jeans.

I can’t take anymore and roll her off me and onto her back. I kiss her neck and work my way down the side of her right boob and cut back in towards her stomach. She’s moaning and sighing gently the entire time.

I reach the waistband of her sweatpants, and when I don’t receive any orders to halt, I teasingly tug them off her to reveal cute super girl underwear.