Robert Wilson - Eureka Street - A Novel of Ireland Like No Other

But at least my esteemed workmates all had a big laugh when they heard I was going to ride the Peace Train. Honestly, such fatalism was most unbecoming. Ronnie said, and I quote, `There'd be peace quick enough if the Army were allowed to go into every Fenian ghetto, guns blazing: I'd always imagined that the Army were allowed to do precisely that. Ronnie didn't know that I was a Catholic. I had told him I was a Methodist from Fivemiletown. He believed me.

I looked across at my lounging co-workers and noticed that little Rajinder was sitting, as always, on his own, the Belfast Asian. Rajinder wasn't quite white, and this was a problem for Ronnie Clay and his pals. The week before, Ronnie had told Rajinder that black people all looked the same to him. Rajinder's smile had been a pale, pale thing. I think he'd heard that one before. It was an ugly moment but, in fairness to Ronnie, I had to admit that black people all looked the same to me as well. But then white people all looked the same to me too. To me, we all looked pretty awful.

We finished up about four. At Ronnie's suggestion, we all headed off to the Bolshevik for a couple of pints. I didn't want to go but it would have been impolitic to refuse. I didn't want to look like a university graduate or a human being or something like that.

The Bolshevik was an old city-centre bar of imperfect design and cleanliness. It had been opened in the early twenties by Ireland's only communist. At first called the October '17, the name was changed to the Lenin, on account of customers continually asking what happened on 17 October. From the Lenin, the name was changed to the Trotsky, the popular during the latter years of the Second World Khrushchev, the Gagarin, the Revolution, swiftly changed at the start of the Troubles, and finally to its present tide. The original owner was long since dead but his descendants held fondly to the tradition of Soviet nomenclature.

Unfortunately, the Bolshevik was commonly dubbed the Bullshit by the citizens and was mostly frequented by reactionary Protestants of the most decided kind. There were no revolutionaries and Rajinder never joined us. Ronnie was always immensely happy in the Bolshevik. He and the other colonists felt that this was their kind of place, their kind of fate.

There was some old chat with my workmates, some old crap. They chided me again for my imminent journey on the Peace Train. They grew serious. They lamented their lot. They talked the talk of Protestant fear and conspiracy. Catholics were moving in everywhere, including across the table from them if they but knew. The Fair Employment Commission was putting them in the workplace. They were then getting enough money to buy property in good Protestant areas where the houses had no shit on the walls. The RUC weren't allowed to shoot them any more and if any good Protestant took a couple of the dirty bastards out, he was, appallingly, sent to prison just as though he'd committed a crime. Bar the tits and the university education, these guys reminded me of Aoirghe. I didn't mention this.

I was, as you'd expect, bored pissless with this. Belfast hatreds were multiple but unvarying. I'd heard them all before, the details and the emphases never changed. You could sing along if you Iiked.These fulminations were faded and dog-eared with age.

The tragedy was that Northern Ireland (Scottish) Protestants thought themselves like the British. Northern Ireland (Irish) Catholics thought themselves like Eireans (proper Irish). The comedy was that any once-strong difference had long melted away and they resembled no one now as much as they resembled each other. The world saw this and mostly wondered, but round these parts folk were blind.

Interestingly enough, hardnien would still routinely and joyfully beat the shit out of Catholics/ Protestants even if those didn't believe in God and had formally left their faith. It was intriguing to wonder what a bigot of one faith could object to in an atheist who was born into another. That was what I liked about Belfast hatred. It was a lumbering hatred that could survive comfortably on the memories of things that never existed in the first place. There was a certain admirable stamina in that.

I sat in the grimy bar and listened to those boys, happy but mistaken in the belief that I was a Protestant. In my early years, I had often hoped that the future would be different. That from out of the dark mists of Ireland's past and present a new breed would arise. The New Irish. When all the old creeds and permutations in people would be contradicted. We would see the Loyalist Catholic. The liberal Protestant. The honest politician. The intelligent poet. But, as I sat and listened to my workmates, I decided I wasn't going to hold my hand in my arse waiting for any Utopia.

The flow of debate was halted when a skinny, grubby kid approached our table with an armful of newspapers. He softly ululated some mysterious phrase which, though it sounded like Oyoyillooiiethkckooiy, we all knew meant, `Would you like to purchase the latest copy of the Belfast Telegraph newspaper?' At least the kid did this quietly as a concession to being indoors. Out on the streets his (sometimes extremely mature) colleagues belted out these Nordic challenges with some gusto.

Nobody wanted a newspaper so Ronnie told the kid he had no sale. The kid stood where he was, wiped his nose with his sleeve and said: `All right, ten p for a joke, then.'

One of my workmates, Billy, groaned. `Ah, fuck, it's not you, is it? I didn't recognize you. Had a bath this year or something?'

The kid's murky chops grew murkier. `Does your dick reach your arse?' he asked.

I stared.

`What?' said Billy.

`Does your dick reach your arse?'

Billy was unamused. `What do you mean?'

`Well, if it does you can go and fuck yourself easier.'

Billy slapped the kid hard across the face. The child dropped his newspapers. He bent to pick them up, snuffling, trying to cover his face with his hands.

I put my glass down.

`What did you do that for, you dumb prick?' Ronnie inquired mildly of Billy.

'None of your business, wankstain,' he riposted.

The dirty kid looked up briefly, a bright look amidst his tears. Obviously he had not heard that bon mot before and was now carefully committing it to memoryYou could almost see his lips move as, imperfectly, he spelled out the letters.

Billy lifted his hand as though to take another swipe at the boy.

`Touch him again, and I'll break your fucking skull,' said Ronnie.

Billy was a sparky enough young man and might have gone for it but Ronnie had surprised us all so much. Billy was smart enough to make no ungenerous assumptions about anyone's pugilistic skills. Wisely, he decided that experience was always an unknown quality and let it go.

The kid picked up his papers and moved off, sniffling.

'Aye, Ronnie, you're my fucking hero.'

`SuperClay.'

'You fancy him, do you?'

`Ronnie wants to fuck the wee snotbag, right enough.'

'I'm sure he'll let you for a fiver.'

I drank up and got out. Outside the Bolshevik, the kid was picking up his papers again. Reasonably, the landlord had thrown him out for getting hit in his bar and the papers had spilled. I helped him.

'They're pretty fucked, son. Nobody will buy them now. I'm sorry.'

`Bollocks,' he replied.

'What?'

'Forget it.'

A window rapped behind us. I looked round. Ronnie Clay and his pals were hooting and jeering at us, obscenely pantomiming a variety of sexual acts. Ronnie was back to normal, I was glad to see. I didn't want to have to start liking him.

`Let's move on,' I said to the kid.

We walked on, no doubt confirming the delighted predictions of my workmates.

`Hey, kid, what's your name?'

He skipped further away from me, his dirty coat flapping. `You're not going to fruit me up, are you? You're going to try and fuck my bum, you dirty poof. Help!' he started shouting to passers-by. `Help. I'm being raped. Help!P