The Hibernia Strain
By Albert Peterson
Dedication
In memory of Mum
1
“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.”
“Trying to mug me, I guess.”
“Yea you’re probably right. It was more than likely junkies looking for money to get their next fix. Anyhow, not to worry you’re safe now Emma.”
“I know.” A beaming smile sprea
ds across her face. She tightens her grip on my arm, much to my approval, and we carry on down the street.
We make small talk along the way towards the taxi rank. It turns out that she’s a student in a local college, studying to become a primary school teacher. She does, however, come from another county. Coincidently it’s the same one I originate from, Sligo.
She grew up on a farm in the countryside, whereas I was raised closer to the city. I tell her that I work nightshift in a local factory and that I was getting a post-work bite to eat before our unusual introduction.
“You probably should message your friends to let them know that you’re ok,” I suggest.
“Maybe I will but then again maybe I won’t. I’m kind of pissed with them to be honest. If they weren’t so late meeting up with me then this wouldn’t have happened.”
“I see,” I say with a disgruntled tone.
She must have picked up on this as she quickly adds “But then again I wouldn’t have met you if they did show their faces on time, so it isn’t all bad, right?”
I smirk in agreement.
We finally reach the line of taxis and walk up to the first one we see.
“Ok then this is you,” I say as the driver nods to acknowledge us as his next fare. “I’m so sorry this happened to you, and I hope you’ll be ok.” I gesture to the now slightly swollen pink mark left on her cheek.
“Oh I think I’ll survive.” We both share a grin.
I feel an awkward nervous sweat building up. This always happens to me when I’m about to do something I don’t feel comfortable doing.
I’m a shy guy who doesn’t usually stand out in a crowd. I watch my friends chat up the good looking women on nights out while I sit back and pretend I’m satisfied with my beer and general lack of confidence.
Now here I am. Fate has landed me in this situation where I’m talking to possibly the most beautiful girl I’ve ever laid my eyes on.
Christ, I hope she doesn’t want to shake hands goodbye! Mine are clammy with sweat, and I doubt very much that that combined with a salty residue from earlier would leave her with much of a positive lasting impression of me.
I tuck my hands into my trouser pockets. I’m not sure whether it’s a delayed surge of adrenaline from earlier, but I build up enough courage to say, “So...ahem, I was wondering...ahem if I could get your...em...your.”
I look down at my feet. My tatty converse trainers hardly convey the image of someone she would be impressed with. I can picture the type of guy she would normally date. Tall, well dressed and well groomed with good looks equal to hers and possessing a confident extrovert personality. Bail out now Matt; a girl like her is way out of your league!
“My?” she chirps.
“Your number.” I manage to choke it out.
I feel so mortified. I can tell my face has gone a deep beetroot red. Damn my apprehensive demeanour.
I look up, and her eyes are staring straight at me. Her eyebrows raised in a quirky questioning manner, at first, then drop into a slight frown.
“I don’t know if my boyfriend would approve of me giving out my number to handsome men, even one who’s my knight in shining armour.”
I’m pretty sure I can feel vomit knocking at the back of my throat. No, wait, that’s just my testicles imploding since I realise I never want to attempt to ask someone who is this far out of my league, out again because this is what happens when I do.
“I understand,” I whimper like an injured puppy.
Her face lights up with that delightful grin of hers as she laughs out, “Matt I’m kidding. I don’t have a boyfriend. Look I’ll give you my number in the taxi if you have nowhere else to be.”
It takes few moments for the realisation of what’s just being offered to me to sink in. Did she really just ask me to get in the taxi with her?
My train of thought is interrupted by the driver asking in a slightly annoyed voice, “So will we be leaving anytime soon.”
I look at Emma who is already sitting in the back seat, her hand extended in my direction beckoning me to join her. I don’t take a second longer and get in beside her, close the door and buckle up. She gives the driver an address. I recognise it to be in the direction of the city’s main college. It isn’t a long drive, about ten minutes away.
This situation is totally new territory to me. I sit looking past the front seat, out to the road ahead. There aren’t really many other cars on the road, mainly just taxis bringing people home after their nights out on the town.
We pass by the takeaway, where all the commotion happened earlier. There still seems to be ongoing trouble. Three Garda cars have arrived at the scene. There’s a lot of shouting, as well as people fighting and running around.
“Wonder what all the commotion’s about?” the driver enquires. We don’t answer. He doesn’t seem to notice, though, carrying on with his end of the conversation.
“Looks like you both picked the right time to go call it a night.”
This time I reply with a begrudged, yet agreeing sigh, while I continue to gaze out the window at the scenes unfolding. He must have picked up on our lack of interest in having a conversation with him as he now seems content enough to turn his attention back to the road and carry on driving in silence.
Outside it seems to be turning into chaos. Fighting appears to be breaking out all over the place. The Gardai are outnumbered and have lost all control of the situation. This is proven to me by the sight of one officer being jumped by two women while trying to wrestle a troublemaker off a colleague.
A Garda van pulls up as we leave the scene in the taxi’s rear view mirror. What in the hell is going on? Sure, the Gardai have to deal with brawls on a regular basis, but this is different. This kind of reckless havoc doesn’t happen here. Were we really the cause of some sort of mini riot?
Emma and I look at each other. A puzzled look is etched on her face. I’m sure mine’s displaying the same uncertainty. I pray the camera outside the takeaway was a live video feed only and didn’t actually record the events or else we might be getting a friendly visit from the boys in blue. I waive this idea and instead reassure myself that I didn’t do anything wrong. This self realisation of innocence settles me, and I relax into the seat.
Emma’s hand finds mine in the gloom. I whisper, “Crazy night huh?”
“It sure was,” she replies, “but it’s not over yet.”
She leans towards me and kisses me tenderly. This takes me by surprise, but I certainly don’t resist. Instead, I allow myself to melt into her soft lips. They have a faint hint of strawberry flavour to them. Fruity lip balm I presume or maybe she had been drinking strawberry cocktails. The source isn’t really that significant. The main thing of importance right this instant is that I’m getting to taste it.
She pulls away and whispers in my ear, “When we get to my apartment I’m going to show you just how appreciative I am”.
I’m not sure if it’s the remnants of alcohol in her system or if is she usually this seductive, but I love the fact that she is so forward. It saves me the terror of having to initiate it.
I catch a glimpse of the driver smirking in the mirror. Hah. I’m sure he’s well used to this scene playing out in his backseat every weekend. I feel a sly grin starting to break across my face, but it doesn’t get a chance to form as Emma has her hand around my neck and pulls me closer to carry on kissing.
I comply and our lips and tongues collide again in a passionate onslaught. This continues for a couple of minutes when suddenly the driver yells, “Shit” and slams full force on the brakes.
We’re both slammed forward. My seatbelt tightens around me and holds me there until the forward inertia stops, and I’m thrown back into my seat with a thump. I’m fine, so I check on Emma. She appears ok, although she is clutching her neck. She might have minor whiplash.
“I’m fine”, she insists when she sees me looking at her.
The driver asks if we’re ok and on confirmation he switches
off the ignition and gets out of the car muttering, “Stupid bitch”.
I observe outside the car and notice that we’re quite close to the college. It’s also clear that the car is wedged up against the roadside kerbing.
Next, I see a woman, in her early twenties, standing in the middle of the road. She seems unfazed by the fact she could have been run down and looks even less so by the raging driver walking towards her, shouting profanities. Is she drunk? Or is she high maybe?
I urge Emma to stay in the car as I unbuckle my belt and get out. I have a clearer view of the woman now, and with the aid of the street lights, I can plainly see her face.
My face drops. She has the exact same pale hue to her skin like the thugs from earlier in the night. She also has some bloody looking wounds on her face and arms. We definitely didn’t hit her with the car.
An eerie feeling washes over me and I can’t help but feel really fucking uneasy. It’s too big of a coincidence to have two bizarre events happen in one night, with such similar factors involved.
The driver meanwhile has positioned himself face to face with the woman and continues yelling at her. He begins to shake her roughly by the shoulders when she remains unresponsive.
I’m totally unprepared for what happens next. She snaps out at his throat. Her teeth cut deep into the soft flesh around his Adams apple. As she pulls her head backwards, it reveals teeth and lips stained red with the driver’s blood.
The driver first falls to his knees; blood is streaming out of the sadistic looking wound, and then he unceremoniously slumps to the ground, face first. He’s just lying motionless. Is he dead? Has he passed out from the pain or shock? I can’t tell for sure. Fuck! What should I do?
I half hiss / half whisper an order to Emma to get out of the car. She obviously has witnessed the entire episode and is just sitting there frozen with her hands covering her mouth; in an attempt to subdue the screams which I’m sure are bursting to escape.
I didn’t notice him at first, but arriving on the scene is a second individual; a tall man. It’s difficult to make out his age as he’s cloaked in shadows. Does he know what he’s just stumbled upon? He might have witnessed it all and unlike me is willing to help. If he’s here to lend a hand, then, I’ll help too! He reaches the woman, but instead of pulling her away from the driver, he instead helps her to subdue him further. What the hell!
The Hibernia Strain Page 1
