A Tale of Two Towns

Warning: Contains substance abuse and violence.

"The most divided town in the country" is a common saying in these parts. We believe it wholeheartedly - just like all the others who claim the same. In its retelling we reinforce it, perpetuate it and have made it manifest in our physical and emotional geography. Ours is truly a tale of two towns. There is no fraternity, and few neutral spaces save those that straddle no-man's-land. Places where we forget what divides us for a time to indulge in our vices. The warning signs of segregation are written in invisible ink along the pavements and roads only for us to see. Ours is an enclosure. A desolate farm whose livestock dutifully maintained its fences and hedges long after the farmer had given up the ghost.

Mark awoke alone and the Fear immediately kicked in. The Fear is a colloquial term we have for the anxiety that marches hand-in-hand with sobriety after too many days on the booze. He was rarely sober, now nineteen his time was divided between an idle day followed by partying at night. In the evenings he would go to various bars and the people that knew him knew what's for. They would fork out what cash they could to feed their own addictions. Setting money aside for his dad like a good son, he would then use the rest to chase his own oblivion.

His dad was a local gangster. This town had plenty of them on both sides of the tracks. They were the type that claimed to have a higher calling, but who were in reality petty drug dealers lamenting that the country had moved on from their old excuses. The ancient rivalries were still there, but the facade of the freedom fighter and of the defender was a relic of the past. Yet they were allowed to exist wielding those old monikers. Afforded silence by communities looking to get on with their lives. 

Mark was a relic in the making. With school now far behind him, what other opportunities did he have? He had never held a proper job, a stable home, or even a family beyond the various drug addicts that took up with his dad for a time. 

At school he had been the big man. People knew who he was, and few dared to fight back. When they did it thrilled him. He enjoyed fighting and was good at it. The softer they were, the better. The ones from more respectable families with parents who could never say no. The ones who had never been beaten. And so, he gave them the beating they should have had.

He lit a cigarette as he lay there, taking in his hovel of a room. A band of light broke through the partially closed curtains, revealing the smoke stains on the roof, the mold in the top corner, and fist marks in the plywood walls. The TV, perched at the end of the bed was on but blank and gave off a familiar buzz. 

Working saliva into his mouth, he could taste blood, and now that he thought about it his jaw didn't feel right either. He must've got into a scrap last night and couldn't remember it. Looking at his knuckles they were red with blood, but not his own. He stubbed the cigarette into the overflowing ashtray beside the bed. Pulling on his clothes from the night before, he put his swollen hand into his pocket and sighed.

Downstairs his dad was sitting in the front room with a can of beer nestled between his legs. Virtual horse racing on the TV, he was rolling a cigarette and didn't bother to look up.

"You got something for me son?" he asked. It was a demand more than a question.

"No. I must have lost it last night."

"And the gear?" he said, voice unchanged. He was looking up at him now. A cold fire burned behind that stare.

"Some left. I remember selling...""

"You need to wind your neck in, kid," his dad cut in, "you're a mess. And what's worse is its costing me money." He lit the cigarette and looked back at the TV. "You need to fix this. Today. Or else you're out on your own."

---

That evening, Eoin sat on his sofa wondering what to do with himself. His wife had retired a half-hour before, complaining of a sore head. He had thought about turning on the PlayStation but decided against it. With his evening free he decided he would read. He felt more sophisticated already. He always fancied himself closeted snob.

In school he had read 'Of Mice and Men' and had loved it. He couldn't say why. Thinking back to it, he remembered it being better than a film. He could see each scene play out in his head. But that had been the height of it. Growing up in the terraces, if you had been spotted with a book you would have been taken for thinking you were better than everyone else.

He too had left school young and got a job in a local chicken processing factory that he took a bus to every day. Lately they had him working an evening shift, the last bus back taking him as far as the town center. From there he'd pass through the invisible barrier back to his side of town. On his way he would pass all the drunks outside the pubs, smoking fags before they nipped in for last orders. The odd time he would join them, enjoying a pint before tiptoeing into the house and sleeping on the sofa so as not to wake his wife.

He walked over to the small bookshelf they had in their small living room. It was a hodge-podge collection, and he had no idea where half the books had come from. He lifted one. 'A Tale of Two Cities' by Charles Dickens. Wasn't that the guy that wrote the 'Muppets Christmas Carol'? A page had been dogeared and so he opened it and began to read.

'So far as it was possible to comprehend him without overstepping those delicate, and gradual approaches which Mr. Lorry felt would be the only safe advance, he at first supposed that his...' 

His eyes began to glaze over. Why did he feel tired all of a sudden? And annoyed? It was hopeless he thought, and he put the book back on its shelf. 

It was rare to have a Saturday evening to himself. He crept upstairs to the toilet. When he finished, he caught a glimpse of the man staring back at him from the small mirror above the sink. His hairline had receded early, and what was left of it was turning from red to gray. His skin sagged, and there was a tiredness behind his eyes. God almighty, when did he get so old? Life seemed to have passed him by. He looked away from the mirror and went downstairs.

Looking out the living room window that opened up immediately onto the street. He spied two couples walking by; the men in dark jackets, blue jeans and caterpillar boots with their arms around women with coats over their heads to protect their straightened hair and fake tans from the drizzling rain. Something in him yearned to join them. He thought of his poor wife upstairs. The migraines had been getting worse lately. She was going to take the bus with him part of the way on Monday to see the GP.

He checked the fridge. No beers, just the detritus you could make nothing with and a carton of milk about to expire. He really should start doing more of the grocery shopping he thought. He made a mental note for future Eoin.

Going back into the living room he turned on the box TV to find the latest D-list celebrity show. He turned it off. An old friend of a thought crept into his mind. Maybe he could go out. Just for one? A Guinness at the local, and a small Chinese box on the way home. He'd be back in an hour. It didn't take long. Pulling on his coat and his best brown boots, he closed the door gently behind him.

---

Kelly dreamed of blowing this place to kingdom come as she poured what felt like her hundredth pint of the night. This bar was the worst of what humanity had to offer and her job was a dull monotony wading through it.

Every evening started the same. Quiet at first with only day-drinkers for company. Next the families come in, disguising a boozing session as a dinner out. Next the evening loners in it for the long haul, lining up against the bar like it were a trough. Last were the younger crowd, boys and girls who had already had their fill by the time they'd left home.

Her feet were sore from standing all night, and the end was nowhere in sight. It was after 10, and the last orders were four hours away. She would have gone home if she could, but too many had called out. They were probably in another bar up the road. 

Her bar was neutral - making it the busiest in town. She wasn't sure why that was. Many other bars in this area that were deemed too Catholic or too Protestant didn't seem any different on the face of it. This wasn't the first time she had thought about blowing the place to smithereens, or at least calling in a hoax. It would probably clear out half the room or even give her the night off. But she didn't. She knew they'd find her, if not the police, then one of the other sorts. She knew the landlord paid both. Maybe that was why. 

Once the crowd reached critical mass, there was no taming it. Young men chased each other to the bottom of each glass while keeping themselves conscious by doing lines in the toilets. That was something she had to overlook, or else she'd be in for a talking to. Sometimes fights broke out. The bouncers were unscrupulous when it came to that. Like boulders they crashed through the crowd to the source of the commotion. Big or small, rich or poor, connected or no, you were out on the street. Go home son, they'd say, sober yourself up and you can come back another day.

A new face stood anchored to the end of the bar. He had barely moved all night, ordering one drink after the next, and not shifting in case he lost his place. He'd come in after the dinner crowd but was not one of her usuals. She poured for him without being asked. Each time she did, he handed her a note and told her to "keep the change love."

The music was at full pelt now, and her head was beginning to throb. Most mornings after she awoke with a hangover although she hadn't touched a drop in years. Her customers revolted her, but it was the only job she knew how to do. She had given up the facade a long time ago now. Sometimes the young ones grew offended, used to the fake niceties they got in other places. The alcoholics didn't mind it though. They took it as a sign of respect, as if it were a business transaction conducted over the necessities of life.

Time passed slowly. The man at the end of the bar had disappeared. Four or five pints deep she was surprised he had held for so long before his spot was swallowed up by the crowd. She was pouring six Guinness at a time now, letting them settle while pouring shots and mixed vodka drinks by the dozen. No matter how many drinks she pulled the drunken eyes of the many-headed beast followed her greedily and their number never thinned.

She needed a break. In this line of work, smoking was a requirement to get one. Leaving the bar she walked towards the back of the building which opened onto a small alleyway. There was commotion up ahead. The crowd had parted around two men. 

One she recognized as the loner from the end of the bar, and the other a kid she knew sold cocaine in the toilets. The younger man was beating the older senseless as he lay on the sticky floor. Before she knew it, the bouncers pushed past her. The young man was dragged out into the alley. The older, slightly bloodied, took a moment to get to his feet. His eyes were glazed over. The bouncer took one look at him. "You've had too much to drink pal," and escorted him out the front.

She lamented his passing as she stepped out into the alley. He had paid her handsomely. The bouncer and kid were lost to the night.

---

Eoin woke up on the sofa the next morning with the worst headache in existence. What had happened last night? There was blood on the cushion beside his face. His face throbbed too now that he thought about it. He could remember going to the bar, he remembered standing at the bar and ordering more beers than he should have. And then nothing. He went upstairs to the toilet. He had a black eye and swollen lip. Had he been in a fight? The clothes he had on from the night before were sticky and smelled of alcohol. 

The door to his bedroom lay open and his wife was gone. She must have left for work and he had been too drunk to rouse. He checked the medicine cabinet for paracetamol. None. He remembered the epiphany he had last night. His bus for the evening shift left at two. It was currently eleven. He could walk up into the town, get some groceries, and some painkillers and be back in time to get ready to go. 

---

Kelly called in sick. When her boss asked her what was wrong with her, she said "everything" and hung up the phone. If she got sacked it would be a relief, for then she would be forced to take action and perhaps even go in a different direction altogether. She had got home late. After a quick shower, she went to bed and woke up more refreshed than she had in a long time. Seeing the sunshine bathing the trees and grass outside made her dread going back to dark and dingy as the staff called it.

She decided she wouldn't stay home either. Sometimes when people call in sick, they stay home in fear of getting caught. They make themselves suffer as if they did have some malady. A nice bacon butty with some orange juice followed by some shopping. Staring at her mishmash of assorted make-up, she decided she'd treat herself to something new. Perhaps even something expensive.

---

Mark handed his father all he had. His father took it without a word. 

He turned to leave.

"Here," his dad said, still not looking at him, holding out an envelope.  

---

Ryan loved the summertime. Northern Ireland is truly the most beautiful place on earth during its three or four days of summer. Forget booking your ticket to Malia, they should all be coming here instead. Ryan actually had booked a ticket to Malia with his mates, much to the dismay of his girlfriend, but that wasn't for another couple of weeks. He'd leave his job at the chemist, go to party for a week, recover and then start back to university.

His supervisor called him over. "I'm away for a fag, so look after the shop love while I nip out back." He had considered starting smoking himself or pretending to smoke. Nothing was more sacred than a smoke break on the job in Northern Ireland. It would've been nice if everyone got a ten-minute break. If he did, maybe he'd get an ice lolly from the shop across the road and sit out in the sun. That'd be alright he figured.

He stood behind the till and looked around the shop. A middle-aged lady stood sampling some makeup. That won't do much for you love, he thought, before feeling bad. What a terrible thing to think. There was a man too, in the middle aisle where the staff had a clear view of the painkillers. He didn't look the type to be stealing pain medication, but you could never tell. He looked like he'd woken up in a ditch. Jesus, he couldn't wait to go back to school.

The door opened and his heart sank. Mark had been a couple of years older than him at school. Walking up the counter he said nothing. He looked tired. Handing over a prescription, he didn't even seem to recognize him. Usually, he was meant to direct the customer to the other desk to deal with the pharmacist, but not wishing to prod a sleeping dog, he handed it to the half blind pharmacist himself. He felt an intense pressure behind him, as a sound split his ears, 

and was no more.

The news that night was nothing new in these parts, although this too was meant to be a relic of the past. A "security incident" in a town with two names. A tragedy, decried by all that would soon be forgotten. A vigil would be held, the rubble cleaned up, but the invisible boundaries would remain unchanged. Those that died were "taken too young" and the "thoughts and prayers" of all were with them. The group that had parked the van would claim responsibility, but not take responsibility. The bar would be packed again next weekend. The petty drug lords would sling their powder to young folks intent on not fading and a widow would sleep alone again.