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

She opened the door and glared at me with her habitual lack of grace.

'Hello,' she said, without enthusiasm.

I smiled. `I'll need a hand to get this yoke in for you,' I suggested.

There was a new reluctance in her face. `I've someone here who'll help you.'

She called inside. My heart sank. What was she doing having some man in her flat? Somewhere deep in my consciousness, I must have been idly speculating about rapidly showing Aoirghe the true humanist, non-violent political path and then having her roger me to a standstill, all well before midnight.

My surprise was superseded by astonishment and then vexation when Septic Ted popped his head round the door and smiled uncertainly at me. `Hiya, Jake.'

`Fancy seeing you here, Septic:

`Amazing, isn't it?'

`No.'

Aoirghe affected to ignore our sloppy chat but I could see that even she was anxious. I was furious. What was sleazy Septic doing there?

`Let's get the sofa in,' I said, grimly enough.

It took longer than it should have. I kept giving the thing sharp nudges, trying to drive it into Septic's groin. After a while, he started to return the favour. This silent battle impeded our progress. By the time we finally deposited it in Aoirghe's sitting room, we were sweating and blowing like whales.

`Boy,' said Aoirghe. `For young guys, you two are really out of shape. I'll make some coffee.'

Septic looked terrified at the prospect of being left alone with me, even for a minute. `Ah, not for me. I have to head on. Going to the Wigwam, Jake?'

`Yeah,' I said. `I'll see you there.'

He blanched and left. I noticed no flesh on flesh as he parted from Aoirghe. That was something.

She turned to me. `Edward just called round to discuss something with me,' she said nervously.

`Who?'

'Edward, your friend'

'Oh, Septic, right!

There was an uncomfortable silence. I prepared to leave.

'Coffee?' she asked.

'Please,' I squeaked.

I followed her into the kitchen. We chatted vaguely. I told her the sofa looked nice in her flat. She said she'd been worried it wouldn't suit the rest of her decor. I said that the occasional incongruity was a mark of style. She said that was OK for small items but that sofas made big statements. I said it didn't matter, the sofa looked well anyway.

The usual stuff that people who don't like each other talk.

It was strange. Both our faces looked hot and our voices were tense. I'd never been in her flat before. We had not often been alone and we certainly had never been polite. I didn't know how long I could sustain my end of the disquisition on interior design. I felt my mouth drying out.

I hadn't thought much about Aoirghe. I had pondered much on her politics and her bad attitude but I had not deeply considered her. What kind of bus had she ridden to school when she was a kid? What was her favourite colour? Did she like lapsed-Catholic ex-tough guys with low self-esteem?

Appraised in this manner, Aoirghe, for a brief moment, didn't seem so bad, after all.

It was a very brief moment.

In a sudden access of affection, I asked her playfully what her surname was. I couldn't believe that I didn't already know. I mentioned this to her.

Her face went taut as a drum.'Are you trying to be funny?' she asked bitterly.

`Ah, no,' I said, doing my innocent face. (It was one of my favourite faces. I don't know what it looked like but it felt superb.)

She muttered something else to me, handed me a cup of coffee and stalked off into her sitting room.

`Sorry?' I said, following her.

`Jenkins,' she spat. 'My surname is Jenkins.'

How I wish I hadn't so precipitately slurped up that first mouthful of coffee. It splattered onto her new sofa close to the spot where I'd spat all that tea in Chuckie's house. I coughed. I choked.

`Jenkins,' I said brightly. `That's a nice name.!

Old Aoirghe's glare was genocidal again.

'No, really. I mean it.'

You know the way when you're a kid and you get caught doing something really bad and you're in real trouble and the adults confront you and you think to yourself, Oh, fuck, this is serious! And then you piss yourself laughing anyway? Well, I tried not to laugh. I passionately wanted not to Jenkins. Aoirghe Jenkins. It must have broken her republican heart that she wasn't called something Irish like Ghoarghthgbk or Na Goomhnhnle. I laughed. Like a drain.

`You're such an asshole,' said Aoirghe.

`Fuck, here we go again.'

`What do you mean, here we go again?'

`You're always busting my balls about something.'

Then Aoirghe told me what it was about my balls that they needed so much busting. She told me I was arrogant and sexist. She told me I was naive and unmotivated. She told me that I wasn't republican because of an innate self-loathing, a deep political self-hatred. I was rather she could have doubted the real intensity of my self-love.

I sipped my coffee. `At least I'm not a fascist,' I murmured.

`Are you saying I'm a fascist?' she screeched.

`Well, you republicans are always telling me that you're nationalist and socialist at the same time.' I did my wide showman's smile. `Nationalist and socialist. Now, children, does that remind us of any famous twentieth-century political movements?'

I tried to smile at her. I was doing my best to keep it light hearted, to accuse her of fascism almost playfully.

`Fuck you,' she said.

`Come on, Aoirghe, it's really childish to fight like this.'

'Childish? That's rich, coming from you. Everything I've ever heard you say has been infantile. Just because I have some political commitment you think you can take the piss.'

`Political commitment is not what you have, sweetheart.' I knew how much she hated being called sweetheart. I cupped my hands over my testicles just in case. `Fountain Street was not an expression of political commitment!

`I didn't do it.'

'You fucking support it.'

`No, I don't.'

`Condemn it, then. Say they shouldn't have done it. Say it was wrong.

She was silent for a moment, her face coloured. `It was regrettable,' she hazarded.

`Regrettable?' I screamed. `Tell me it was wrong.'

She pursed her lips together and looked at her hands. I stood up and bent over her, putting my face close to hers. If I could have found it in my heart to say something tender and sensual, this might have been a good move.

`You can't condemn it. You think it was absolutely fine, a regular way to behave. And that, my dear, means you're a fucking Nazi!

`It was regrettable but the end justifies the means.'

I felt her spit on my face. I wheeled away and straightened up.

`Brilliant. So, it's time for the Maoist-bullshit part of the evening now? The end justifies the means. That's based on an immature attitude about life, never mind politics. There is no end, there is only means. It's fucking pointless!

I only noticed I was shouting when my throat started to hurt. I stopped. I sat down. I sipped my coffee and looked at my hands.

`A united Ireland is an achievable goal. It will happen.We will win. It's right. That's my opinion and it will never change,' she suggested.

`An opinion that remains unchanged quickly becomes a prejudice,' I said, quite mildly.

Her eyes narrowed. She smiled triumphantly. `What about all your peaceable stuff?F

`That's different. That's a conviction. Convictions are portable. You take them with you anywhere you go. They always apply.!

'Such as?'

`Violence is wrong. That applies in all situations.!

'You must have forgotten that when you decked Gerry,' she said.

'Who?'

`The Peace Train. The guy at the station with the moustache. You broke his nose. Wasn't that wrong?'

`Oh, yeah. Well, I'm an imperfect follower of my own theories. And, yes, it was wrong.' I lit a cigarette and stood up. `Anyway, I've given up violence. I bought a violence patch from the chemist. I stick it on my arm and I feel less need to beat people up.'