Albert Peterson: The Hibernia Strain

“Emm… can I have a double cheese burger please.” The emotionless generic response of, “That’ll be just a minute. Would you like anything else?” leads me to shake my head, lean against the counter and wait as the assistant busies herself getting my order.

I scan around the hectic takeaway. It’s two AM, and all the nightclubs have emptied out. The swarms of wobbly legged, glazed-eyed party goers have thronged onto the streets and turned the many food joints into frantic, noisy auction houses. All pushing and shoving, cash in clumsy hands, trying to be the next to gargle their orders towards the staff.

I feel sorry for anyone who works the weekend nightshift in takeaways. It’s hard work and they tend to take a lot of abuse. It’s the same in all the towns and cities across Ireland on a weekend, and here tonight is no exception.

My eyes finally land on the screen of a security monitor nestled away in a corner behind the counter. Intended to be hidden from customers prying eyes; it’s at an acute enough angle for me to make out the display.

The images are from the street outside. Various couples embrace. One guy is getting sick from enjoying too many pleasures of the bar. Others engage in the usual antics that you would expect at this hour of the night.

I happen to notice a woman standing with her back to the wall, underneath the camera; she’s all alone. The video quality isn’t high, but I can make out that she has a pretty face and that there’s a scared look on it. As the camera auto pans to the left, I can see why. Two shadowy figures are standing around her, closing in, in a menacing manner.

I watch keenly, my eyes glued to the screen. I see the woman’s lips shape themselves in readiness to let out a yell as one of the figures swings a fist in her direction. I have just enough time to see the blow and the resulting blood trickle from a cut on her cheek before the camera scans another area of the street.

I wouldn’t classify myself by any means as a hero. As a matter of fact, I’m the exact opposite, gutless. I find that doesn’t sound as bad as calling myself a coward. But despite my aggression free nature I can’t stand to see guys being violent towards women.

My knee jerk reaction is to reach over the counter and grab a container of salt, knocking over various napkin containers and food boxes as I do. This apparent act of drunken bravado draws cheers from the crowd around me and shouts of anger from the staff. I don’t pass any heed though as I’m already making my way through a sea of short skirts and sweaty beer-stained shirts.

Surely someone has stepped in to help her? I think to myself as I near the exit. While I push the door outwards, I notice straight away that, in fact, no one has come to her aid.

The two assailants must have pushed her to the ground; they now have their quarry truly at their mercy as they stand over her, grabbing at her as she tries to fight them off from her now seated position on the cold concrete.

I sprint towards them and make up the twenty or so metre distance in seconds. Great, they haven’t noticed my approach. With my hand full of salt, I barge into the duo, knocking one over.

“Bastard,” I snarl as I flail my fist towards the face of the second and unleash my handful of salty justice into his eyes. A follow-up with a knee to the stomach and the guy is temporarily subdued, clawing at burning eyes and moaning. A scumbag style kick to the stomach of the first ensures that he stays on the ground.

I can’t help but notice the sickly grey tint to both their skin, similar to how skin looks when someone is choking, and the colour drains from the face. Whatever the reason they’re really unhealthy-looking. Now I know why they looked so shadowy on the camera. This strange complexion helped to blend them into the dullness of the night.

I need to weigh up my options. Do I hang around to see their reactions? I may be comprised of a small frame with decent strong muscles, but I’m certainly not the type who goes around smacking lads about the place or provoking fights.

Another more sensible option would be to vanish from the scene. So, before the creeps can reassemble, I take the woman’s hand, pull her to her feet and usher her with a tug in my direction. I lead her around the corner and down the street.

What the hell am I doing? This show of bravery is a far cry from my usual shy reserved self. Shit, now what…? My inner monologue of uncertainty doesn’t last long. I’m brought back to reality by the woman calling to me to slow down. It’s only now I realize I’m half dragging her behind me, her hand tightly encased in mine. She’s finding it hard to keep up in her high heels.

We slow down, turn into a side alley and stand in a shop doorway.

“Do you think they’re after us?” she whispers.

She’s standing so close to me that the smell of her sweet perfume dances around my nose. My intensified breathing draws the sweet smell in like a vacuum. Combined with the buzz of my adrenaline flowing, it makes me feel dizzy.

I notice I was correct in my previous analysis of how perfectly pretty she is and I can’t help but realise instantly how attracted I am to her.

I pull my sleeve over my hand and dab the cut on her cheek to clean up the traces of blood that have licked down her jaw line to her chin.

At first sight, I guessed she was roughly the same age as me, twenty five. Now on closer inspection and through her makeup, though, I’d say she’s more like twenty one.

I try to sound reassuring in my response, “I don’t think so. Who were they anyway?”

“I don’t know,” she responds with an appreciative look in her eyes as I finish cleaning her face. “I was waiting for my friends and next thing I know I’m being attacked. Thank you so much…” she begins but halts mid-sentence at the sound of approaching footsteps.

She steps in closer, her body pushing up against mine. Her ample chest pressed firmly against my own. Our lips are within inches of each other. Her blue eyes, widened with fear, are locked on mine. A shivery tingle runs through me, but I quickly regain my composure to focus on the impending trouble at hand.

We barely breathe so that we can listen more acutely. I can make out multiple footsteps indicating there is more than one person. Did they follow us? We had fled so quickly that I was sure they wouldn’t find us.

As the footsteps draw closer, I place her behind me, leaving me in a better position to pounce on our pursuers. The footsteps stop then start intermittently. They’re right beside us now. I tense my body, poised to strike.

A young couple stumble past us, hands everywhere and lips locked. Totally oblivious to us, their voyeurs, they disappear further into the darkness of the alleyway.

Both breathing a sigh of relief, I risk a peek from where we stand just in time to spot a Garda car passing on the roadway outside the alley. We take this as a signal it should now be safe enough to leave the safety of our doorway.

“Okay,” I say, “maybe I should get you a taxi?”

“That would be great,” is the reply, followed by an outstretched arm. “By the way my name’s Emma.”

“It’s nice to meet you Emma. I’m Matt.” I shake her hand with a comical nod. She unexpectedly latches onto my arm as we leave the alley and stroll to the nearest taxi-rank in the opposite direction from where we’ve just come.

“I’m guessing the Garda car was en route to pick up our friends?”

I shrug. “I don’t know. I hope so. I wonder what the deal was with them anyhow.”