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I got off on the Celbridge road.
Mick Quinn lived in Rail Park.
I could see his house.
It was dark. Dirty, even. The blind and curtains were all dishevelled and the paint on the walls was all cracked.
Cracked.
Cracks.
Little cracks.
Spiders could not get through. So small.
—It’s what you have in your head, my father said. Look what you made do! Do you think your mother would be happy?
I rang the doorbell.
There was no answer.
—Look what you made me do!
I rang it again.
Ditto.
Perhaps I was wrong. Maybe Mick Quinn could do nothing for me. Maybe I was just a lost cause bidding my time away, until I perished here. I could no longer remember the reason for coming here.
I had no money.
I had nothing.
I went around to the side passage and climbed over the small gate.
It was rusty, with red rust. It dirty my pants.
No matter.
There was a dog out back. He seemed dead. He didn’t move went I stepped towards him. Maybe he was just sleeping.
I should I sleep, I thought.
Go asleep, a little voice inside me said.
I wanted to cry.
I looked at my hands.
They said nothing to me.
Who was I? How old was I? Where did I come from?
I took my notebook out of my pocket and examined its first few pages.
It made no sense.
Galway.
Something about Galway.
I flicked through more pages. They were mostly just scribbles. Child-like drawings. Maybe some else had stolen it from me, and drawn all this in it.
—Throw it away.
Yes.
I dropped the notebook into the dirt and stood firmly on its surface. I squashed it. I could feel the words inside it. They were dying. Suffocating. They said things to me. I heard them crying. I had a pain in my chest.
The dog still did not move.
The sky was grey.
I looked around.
Mick Quinn’s face was in the window. I smiled. He didn’t smile back.
—What did you do to my dog?
—Nothing. Maybe he’s sleeping.
—Are you coming in for a cup of tea?
—I shouldn’t.
