Mick Donnellan’s novels “El Niño” and “Fisherman’s Blues” NOW AVAILABLE IN PAPERBACK FROM AMAZON!

El Niño NOW AVAILABLE IN PAPERBACK FROM AMAZON! CLICK HERE!

 

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Review Excerpt “….perhaps the most exciting part of this publication is that it comes from the heart of Mayo. Set in Ballinrobe, then spanning to Galway and back again, Donnellan has taken the West of Ireland and firmly placed it on the crime writing map. With flavours of Dashiel Hammet and Micky Spillane, the author never loses sight of his own locality. The poetry of Ireland’s West is always fresh on the page. Everything from the bustle of Galway city, to the curious streets of Ballinrobe bounces off the book with the kind of vivid imagery and poetic description worthy of the world’s finest writers. Apparently, we have entered an explosive time for West of Ireland fiction and long may it last…”

 

***Buy El Niño in Paperback now!***

El Niño is the exciting debut novel from Mayo man, Mick Donnellan. Slick, stylish and always entertaining, the story is a rollercoaster
of drama and tension that hasn’t been seen in Irish fiction for a very long time. Charlie is our protagonist, the pick pocket that steals El Nino’s wallet and then falls in love with her. She’s the wild femme fatale, beautiful; enigmatic and seductive. Her
father named her El Niño because the night she was born there was a storm, and he said it signified the way she was to live her life. And right he was. She rocks Charlie’s world with her smoky wiles and drinking ways and her tough chick ideals. This is Noir
at its best. Dark and edgy with crisp fresh dialogue and a plot that engages the reader from the first line and keeps him up all night – right through to it’s powerful finish.

 

Pick up El Niño on Amazon today! Buy ​El Niño Now!

Want to support the author 100%? If so, please purchase from the first option on the link (Amazon) and not the resellers listed afterwards. Writers don’t receive royalties from reseller sales.

 

Fisherman’s Blues –

is the hilarious new novel from Mick Donnellan.Dark and audacious, written in a distinct West of Ireland vernacular, it covers a myriad of genres from Crime Noir to comedy and an odd bit of religion. Fresh in its language, vivid in its descriptions, the book
sings with the signature style of all Donnellan’s previous work, and a bit more. Delving into the lives of drinkers, lovers, thieves and scam artists, the story weaves a web of intrigue and curiosity that ends with an unforgettable bang. Not without its poignant
moments, the plot hinges on the chaotic consequences of three unlikely comrade’s attempts to save their lost relationships, while unintentionally ruining the plans of a rising criminal’s efforts to take over the city. The question is: Can they succeed? And
if they don’t, what then? And where have the women really gone? 

 Click here to buy Fisherman’s Blues today

 

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Buy Fisherman’s Blues in PAPERBACK now!

The Coinbase Catastrophe –

 

‘So, I’m sitting at home.’

‘You’re sitting at home.’

‘And the news breaks.’

‘What news?’

‘You didn’t hear?’

‘I don’t know, you haven’t told me. What news?’

‘Fuck. Fuckin news. Fuck. About the Crypto.’

‘What about the Crytpo? The Bitcoin thing?’

‘The Bitcoin thing. The Litecoin thing. The Ethereum thing. The whole fuckin thing. And Coinbase.’

‘What’s Coinbase?’

‘It’s the biggest exchange for Cryptocurrencies and people were saying it was hacked – not working – charging people’s cards unauthorised amounts.’20180219_2157471544315982.jpg

‘Like how?’

‘Like if you bought a €100 last week, then it duplicated the charge. So now another €100 goes out. And then it does it again. And again. And again. One guy got done for $67,000.’

‘Christ  – can people get it back?’

‘Visa said it wasn’t their fault. Coinbase said it wasn’t them. There’s a group of dicks in the middle called Worldpay.’

‘Who the fuck are they?’

‘They set a thing called a Merchant Category Code – which is supposed to assess the risk and dictate the price of a transaction going from buyer to seller. So when you buy Bitcoin – it goes under a certain Merchant Category Code. Different codes for different things, like an online sale, an over the counter transaction or an ATM Withdrawal. ‘

‘So what code does Coinbase go under?’

‘Up to this it was just classed as a regular purchase online. Like buying something from Amazon or E-bay but these stupid motherfuckers at Worldpay fucked it up. They changed the Code so it would be classed as a “Cash Advance”  like when you use your credit card at an ATM. So imagine you withdraw €100 from the machine and there’s a fee of €2.50. Now it’s the same when buying from Coinbase. Boom – easy money for Visa and Worldpay. Just like that. But guess what?’

‘What?’

‘The assholes backdated it.’

‘How far?’

‘January 22nd.’

‘What’s that mean?’

‘Means if you bought Crypto on Coinbase after January 22nd it was now liable for a Cash Advance fee according to the new MCC. But since the money had already gone out….’

‘They took it again?’

‘Exactly. They took it again, and again, and again, like a never ending loop til people’s bank accounts were cleaned. Til their rent bounced. Til their loans went unpaid. Til the motherfuckin bank is calling up folks saying “…hey, sir, where’s your dumb mortgage you stupid fuck. Oh, you bought Crypto? What the FUCK did you think was going to happen?!” One guy couldn’t feed his kids, put gas in his car, pay for a bus to work. Nothing.’

‘Was that what that was about? The fella on Twitter, saying he lost everything, his account had been hacked and….’

‘Hacked? Fuck hacked, accounts were robbed, man.’

‘Was it just Visa Credit cards?’

‘No, debit too.’

‘So they just took the money from people’s accounts? Totally unauthorised? And what if the money wasn’t there?

‘Shoved it into overdraft – then guess what, you get charged Overdraft fees too.’

‘Couldn’t people just close their Coinbase account?’

‘Didn’t matter, even when people removed their card details. The charges just kept coming….and coming….and coming….so everyone blamed Coinbase. Cos that’s what showed up in your statement, right? Everyone said they’d fucked it up. Didn’t know what they were doing. 13 million Coinbase customer accounts exposed to this shit.’

‘So where’s it at now? Coinbase took the money? Or Visa and Worldpay took the money?’

‘Visa and Worldpay eventually made a statement. Said it was “Not the fault of Coinbase.”

And admitted the MCC thing, but the “…exact cause is yet unknown….’ so who knows?’

‘Did people get their money back?’

‘Eventually. The charges were reversed. But not the fees, or the unauthorised overdraft charges, or the nasty taste left in your mouth cos all your payments been bouncing for days….’

‘Maybe it was a conspiracy by Visa and Worldpay to get everyone to stop buying Crypto? To make it look Volatile. And unsecured. And financially dangerous.’

‘Yeah – and guess what. It motherfuckin worked.’

‘So you’re not going to use Coinbase again?’

‘Would I stick my dick in a blender? Same answer.’

 

 

**

http://bitcoinist.com/breaking-coinbase-confirms-drastically-overcharging-users-debit-credit-purchases-draining-accounts/

“Joint Statement from Visa and Worldpay for Coinbase customers” by @coinbase https://blog.coinbase.com/joint-statement-from-visa-and-worldpay-for-coinbase-customers-9a6f2ff5f3b3

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**

Buy Mick Donnellan’s in PAPERBACK Novels here.

 

 

 

Rural Galway –

 

 

The car knows when you’re going West. Has an equine sensitivity.

Starts to shake a bit.

Dials on the dash get a bit ropey.

Bermuda Triangle job. Except you’re in rural Galway.

I parked up around 3pm. I was there to meet Noel.

Noel knows everyone, stands at pub doors, smoking and keeping an eye on the traffic. Blue jeans and brown leather jacket.

Patterned shirt and hair greying on the side.

Smokes like he hates it.

Twenty Major man, walks down the street like a cowboy, tips of his hands in his pockets, arrogant swagger of a man that has it all solved.

Self appointed local historian.

‘Place is gone to pure fuck entirely.’ He says.

‘How so, Noel?

‘Sure the bastards have it ruined.’

‘Anyone in particular?’

‘Don’t ya know yourself now. Are you in a rush?’

We were on the way to his house to buy a phone.

I’d seen it on DoneDeal the day before.

 ‘No.’ I told him. ‘What about you? Working today or anything?’

‘Work? Shtop. The pricks around here can’t afford me.’

‘What do you do?’

‘Carpenter for years. But I’ve a truck licence too. Are you looking to buy anythin else?’

‘Like what?’

‘I know a fella sellin bags of turf.’

‘Don’t need turf.’

‘Let me know if you do. Fuckin funeral this evening too.’

‘Anyone you know?’

‘Some bollix back from America, but sure you have to be seen. Do you want a tip for a horse?’

‘You’re grand, thanks.’

‘This is my place up here.’

We walked up a stairs. On the second floor there was a Chinese, and a hair salon and a place that did Thai Massages. He winked here as he pulled the door back for the next flight of steps.

His place was a rooftop flat.

One of four box like abodes packed together for bachelors, loners and the abandoned elderly that had nowhere else to go.

You could hear the town buzzing below. Cars beeping, people shouting.

In distance was the Church Steeple.

Goalposts of the football pitch.

Smell of MSG from a defective extractor fan.

Eons of linguistic Galway vibrating through the air.

Intense social history carried through the raw cold.

Everything existing at once.

Before, here, after and forever.

A fluid moment of singularity, unique to Ireland’s West.

An unrecognised immunity to dangerous progress.

Noel walked over to the edge, observed the horizon, waved his hand like an emperor and said: ‘Did you ever see such shite?’

‘Doesn’t look too bad.’

‘The whole fuckin place should be burnt to the ground.’

Silence, then he said: ‘Who’s she?’

‘Who?’

He pointed down to a girl standing against a car. She was maybe fourteen. Sixteen at best. ‘Her.’ He said.

‘I don’t know, Noel. I don’t live here.’

He waved down. Put on a squeaky voice, like you’d talk to child and said: ‘Hiya….hiya…’

She looked up and frowned. An experienced frown for such cases. Then she looked away.

Noel was taken aback. ‘Little bitch.’ He said. ‘They’re all weird around here anyway. Do you want this fuckin phone or not? I’ve a pint left after me on the counter. C’mon.’

 

***

 

Buy Mick Donnellan’s Novels in Paperback here –

 

 

 

 

 

The Hippies –

His hands were shaking, the place was freezing.

Grey stubble and long fingernails.

The table was strewn breadcrumbs and a bowl of rotten fruit.

Curtains blew in the open kitchen window, even though it was snowing outside.

He’d been in an accident. I know this because he said: ‘I was in an accident.’

‘Was it bad?’

‘It wasn’t my fault.’

‘Someone crash into you?’

‘I crashed into the back of someone else. Court next month.’

‘How can you crash into someone else and it not be your fault?’

‘I was drugged.’

‘Who drugged you?’

‘People I had living here.’

‘Lodgers?’

‘They were stuck for a place to stay. I felt sorry for them. So they were staying here.’

‘And they drugged you?’

‘At first it was little things – money going missing. Money I left out for the TV licence, and the electricity. And food from the fridge.’

‘Were they locals?’

‘So called hippies.’

‘What they drug you with?’

‘Some kinda horse tranquilizer. They slipped it in my tea and then asked for a lift to the dole office. By the time I got there I didn’t know where I was. They had a waiting car set up and I drove straight into the back of it.’

‘Were the guards called?’

‘They were. Did me for drug driving.’

‘What they say when you told them what happened?’

‘Said to save it for the judge.’

‘Where they now?’

‘The hippies? They got €10,000 each and hit the road. Haven’t seen them since. I could be looking at time for dangerous driving – off the road for sure. There was people here looking for them last night.’

‘Guards?’

‘People they owe money too.’

‘Dealers?’

‘Who knows?’

‘What you say to them?’

‘I wasn’t here. My brother was.’

‘What they say to him?’

‘He wouldn’t answer the door.’

‘Good plan.’

‘Not really, they kicked it in anyway.’

‘Oh.’

‘So now I need a new door.’

‘What they say to your brother?’

‘Nothing. They hung him out the top window by the legs.’

‘Poor lad.’

‘Then they dropped him.’

‘Was he ok?’

‘Not really. The neighbours were very annoyed.’

‘Were they giving out?’

‘Woman next door complaining she couldn’t sleep. Sure it wasn’t my fault.’

‘Will they be back?’

‘You can be sure of it.’

‘What’ll you do?’

‘They usually come at night so I sleep in a doorway downtown and I come back here during the day. My brother was caught cos he wouldn’t leave with me.’

‘Is he going to be ok?’

‘Dunno. Ambulance was here. He’s in the hospital but I’ve no car to go over so I don’t know. Do you find it cold here?’

‘Freezing.’

‘I’m going to burn an armchair later.’

‘That should help.’

‘Do you want tea?’

‘No thanks.’

 

–#-

Buy Mick Donnellan’s Novels here. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Paying the Penalty –

On the way to the airport – something went “Ding.”

It happened again on the way back.

Two weeks later the letter arrived.

The tone went as such:

You haven’t paid the toll, Micky.

There’s a penalty now, Micky.

Pay 12 Euros Micky or some awful things will happen.

They even had a list of places and methods on how to give them money.

The first one was in “Participating Payzone Outlets.”

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I took a picture of the letter and brought it to the nearest Payzone.

“Yes.” Said the man behind the counter. “We can do this. What is your reg?”

I gave him my Reg.

“Great.” He said: ‘And how are you paying?’

“With my phone – Android Pay.”

“Wonderful.’ He said. “And can you pass me the letter?’

‘I have a picture of it.’

“Oooomp…” He said. ‘You need a physical copy, for the barcode. We can’t do this here. Have you tried just doing it online?’

‘No. But I will now.’

Later online. A big flashing symbol said “Click here to a Pay Penalty Now.’

So I clicked that. Then they asked me for the Journey Reference Number.

And I put that in.

And they came up with a lovely picture of my car and number plate.

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And that was it. No option to Pay. No option to go forward, or back, or click anything else. just a picture of car and number plate.

By now, the letter was in Mayo and I was in Westmeath.

So I rang the Oul Fella and asked him to bring it physically to the Payzone and get it sorted. Half hour later he rang and said: ‘They won’t accept it.’

‘Why not?’

‘It comes up as: ERROR. And that’s all they said. They suggested doing it online?’

‘Tried that – won’t work.’

‘You could always ring them?’

Later on the phone, an automated voice gave me the option to Press 2 to Pay a Penalty.

So I pressed 2.

She asked me then for the Journey Reference Number.

So I put that in.

Then she said she’d transfer me to a customer service agent.

Then there was ringing and then another robotic voice said: ‘I’m sorry, we’re having difficulty. Please try again later.’

Tried later. Same.

Tried later. Same.

Hmm.

Eventually someone said: ‘They have an App! Have you tried downloading it? That’s probably all you need to do.’

So I found the App.

Lovely.

Hit Download and a message popped up saying: ‘Your Device is Incompatible with this APP.’

So there was no hope for the App either.

Went to Twitter. Asked them there.

Nothing back .

Went to the contact form on the site.

Asked them there.

Nothing back.

And now it’s too late. The deadline is gone by and some awful things are going to happen.

 

—-

 

Buy Mick Donnellan’s Novels here. 

 

 

The White House –

Wind blew sharp, like razor blades you couldn’t see. The Polish mechanic had blue overalls and a worried look. It was just me and him but no one was saying anything.

The bonnet of the car was up and open, like a gaping mouth with an engine inside.

In fear of eternal silence, I said: ”Think it’s the airbag.’

He put his hand on the radiator, thought for a second, and said:  ‘Hmm….I think this engine is about to die.’

‘I wouldn’t go that far now.’

‘Your car is old.’

‘But well kept.’

‘It might be a faulty switch.’ He said.

‘That sounds more promising.’

‘Then again, could be oil pump.’

‘Still better than a dead engine.’

‘Big job all the same.’

‘How big?

‘We’ll have to take down the sump.’

I nodded, like I knew wtf that meant, then said: ‘Can you do it today?’

‘Very busy. Everybody want. Tomorrow.’

‘Bring it in tomorrow?’

‘Yes. Tomorrow. Day after today.’

‘Will it break down before then or can I keep driving it?’

‘Keep driving. No problem. No breakdown.’

‘Will it be expensive?’

‘Probably very.’

 

Great. Some days you think you’re getting ahead.

Selling a few books.

Teaching a few courses. But God has other plans.

Later, when the car broke down,  I pulled into an estate to see what could be done.

I got out and opened the bonnet and looked inside. It seemed like the right thing to do. Maybe there’d be an obvious pipe unhooked, or a lead disconnected. It might just need water.

After a few seconds, I stood back and looked around. Spring vauguely threatened, birds sang uncertain, daylight lingered.

There was a white house behind me and you could see a big family through the front window, all huddled around an open fire.

Then the front door opened and a girl came out and asked: ‘Are you ok?’

‘Car broke down.’

‘Is it bad?’

‘Not great I think. It might just need water.’

‘I’ll get you some. Come in.’

I went in. Followed her to the kitchen.

Kids books and half eaten dinners left around. A full ashtray and a tremendous smell of weed.

Suddenly there was a shout from the sitting room. Man’s voice. ‘Sheila! What the fuck’re you at?’

‘Helpin this fella?’

‘With wha?’

‘Givin him water for his car.’

‘Fuck him! Tell him to get his own fuckin water!’

‘Shut up you.’ Then to me. ‘That’s Paddy. Never mind him.’

‘You’re grand, I’ll go again. Water probably won’t make any difference.’

She handed me a jug, said: ‘Here. Take this. It’s awful cold out, isn’t it?’

‘Tis.’

‘I hope you get sorted.’

‘I’ll drop back your jug when I’m finished.’

She went back into the sitting room saying at the same time: ‘Paddy, will you ever shut up when there’s people here.’

‘Who’s people?’ Said Paddy. ‘What are you letting strangers in for…?’

‘He wanted water for his car.’

‘You’re an awful stupid bitch….’

‘Don’t you be calling me a….’

‘And what if he’s from the drug squad?’

‘With a broke down car?’

‘That’s the way they work you clown….’

‘The only clown here is you…..’

‘I’ll fuckin burst his head if he comes back here again.’

‘You wouldn’t burst eggs you lazy lump of shite….’

‘I’ll kill the him stone dead.’

‘Stop fighting!’ Screamed a young girl.

Back at the car, there was a smell of burnt oil and liquorice. The water was already full so it didn’t need any.

I brought back the jug to Sheila and she asked: ‘Would you like a cup of tea or anythin?’

 

 

—–

Buy Mick Donnellan’s novels in PAPERBACK here.

 

Click here for Details on Mick Donnellan’s New Writing Course on January 31st in Athlone Institute of Technology. 

 

 

 

 

Mick Donnellan to Lecture new Writing Course at AIT – Athlone.

Mick Donnellan to Lecture

a

New Creative Writing Module

@

Athlone Institute of Technology

**Wednesday January 31st **

**7.30 -9.30pm **

Duration: 8 Weeks

Course Fee: €160

Register Interest/Contact: mickdonnellan@hotmail.com

Tel:(087) 9422942

Aim of the course:

The aim of this course is to provide students with the tools on how to write, why to write, what to write about and how to get it published. Most budding writers often find they are burning to tell a story, but don’t know how/where to start. Once completed, each participant will leave with the necessary skills to enter the writing industry with confidence and direction. This will include advice/contacts on where and how to send to your work, as well as ways to self promote/produce your writing. An end of course assignment will also ensure each participant finishes with a publishable piece of writing to present to potential agents/publishers. (Students are also welcome to bring existing works in progress to the class to have it discussed, critiqued and developed. )

Course Outline –

  • Writing techniques. Styles of writing. Different genres. Thriller? Chick Lit? Crime? True Stories? What language to use. How to pace your story. Plot and suspense.
  • The Art of Fiction – Novel/Novella/Short Story?
  • Journalism – How to write for the media compared to the fiction market.
  • Screenwriting – How to write for film. What format to use. How to think visually. Getting the script produced.
  • Drama How to write good drama and dialogue. Developing an ear for the rhythms of speech. Getting your Play produced.
  • Poetry – A look at past and contemporary poets and how the art has evolved.
  • Memoir – telling your life story. How and why to do it!
  • Non Fiction – Historical writing. Biography/Auto Biography.
  • Publishing industry – Where to send your work. The right people to send it to. How to prepare and present your Manuscript/Screenplay/Poetry collection.
  • Chance for students to have their work openly critiqued and discussed by others in the class, if they wish to do so.

Intended for:
This course is ideal for writers at all levels of their career. It is particularly suited for beginners and those who need a channel to express themselves creatively.

No experience is required as the course will begin with the basics of writing and gradually move through the different stages towards publishing success. It will be an enjoyable, stress free course with one assignment at the end. It will also help those writers working in isolation and looking for a constructive environment to share and develop their work.

Duration: 8 weeks.

Commencing: Wednesday Evening

January 31st

@

Athlone Institute of Technology, Athlone, County Westmeath.

Time: 7.30 -9.30pm.

Course fee: €160

Contact Mick Donnellan @ (087) 9422942 or

Via E-mail: Mickdonnellan@hotmail.com

Website: mickdonnellan.com

About Mick Donnellan:

Mick Donnellan completed the MA in Writing at NUIG in 2004. Since then he has worked as a novelist, journalist, travel writer, teacher and Playwright. He completed his first novel, El Niño, in 2005 and immediately secured a literary agent. He left Ireland soon after and went on to live in Spain, Australia and Canada. While traveling he worked as a travel writer and Journalist and co-founded the Arts Paper – Urban Pie – in Vancouver. Upon returning to Ireland he went on to work with Druid (2009) and RTE (2010).

Most recently, he established his own theatre company, Truman Town Theatre.

All Truman Town Plays are written, directed, and produced by Mick. The company exploded on to the theatrical circuit in 2011 with their hit Play – Sunday Morning Coming Down. Following a national tour, they went on to produce (and tour) two more hugely successful Plays Shortcut to Hallelujah and Gun Metal Grey. These dramas eventually became known as the “Ballinrobe Trilogy.” More recently, the company toured a fourth Play Velvet Revolution and in 2014, Radio Luxembourg, his fifth Play, was bought by a London Film Company (Dixon/Baxi/Evans) and has been adapted for the screen.

The title for the movie version is “Tiger Raid”. Starring Brian Gleeson, Damian Molony and Sofia Boutella, it had its world premiere at the Tribeca film festival (2016) and was also seen at Cannes and Edinburgh and the Irish Premiere was screened at the Galway Film Fleadh.

El Niño is now published and Mick is currently in negotiations to sell the screen rights. Between that, he teaches writing while promoting his second novel “Fisherman’s Blues.” and keeping Truman Town on the go.

Most of 2017 has been working on the exciting screen adaptation of “Shortcut to Hallelujah” with Florence Films. Hot off the press, the screenplay is titled “Sam” and is based around the gypsy curse supposedly set on the Mayo Football team as they returned home as All Ireland Champions in 1951. “Sam” is set in the present day and deals with themes of Mayo life and the hope of bringing the Sam Maguire home. Drenched in Irish lyricism and modern day dark humour, the script has been been met with keen interest by film producers and actors throughout the industry.

—–

Click here to buy Mick Donnellan’s Novels now!

Side jobs –

 

The writing wasn’t paying the bills. Imagine that?

Had to get some of what the experts called “real work.”

We were there to fix her wall. Her landlord had rang and said there was a big hole in it and could we do something.

 When we got there she couldn’t open the front door. Said the kids had lost the keys. I suggested we climb in the window.

‘No.’ She said. ‘Come around the back and I’ll let ye in.’

We walked round the back. Past an old worn battered couch, and a kid’s rusted bike, and muck, and a rotten old window frame with no pane of glass.

The back door was boarded up with thick slabs of timber. It took her a while to get them all down and let us in.

Inside, the kitchen was dark and there was bare tungsten wires where the lightbulbs used to be.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘Waiting for the landlord to fix that. Come into the sitting room.’

There was light here. And clothes drying on a clothes horse. And the walls were red and sparsely populated with cheap surrealist art.

‘I’m Sarah.’ She said.

She was young, about 22, and beautiful.

‘Sorry about the state of the place,’ she said. ‘I’m not long moved in. I thought you were here to install the internet.’

‘No, not us. Are you waiting for an engineer?’

‘Yeah – the internet and the channels. Getting myself set up – finally.’

‘Were you gone somewhere?”

‘I’m just out of rehab. I was an addict.’

‘You’re young.’

‘Started at 14. Heroin.’

‘Did you get a good deal on the internet?’

‘€25 a month, but it’ll probably go up then after a while. Do you want tea?’

‘You’re grand thanks. Where’s the hole in the wall?’

‘It’s over here. I’ll show you.’

We walked into the hall. Cold. Stone floor – decadent breeze like a dead man’s wheeze. A howl of dead generations. A smell like old wet wood and damp towels.

On the ground was an unwired socket. Screws and screwdrivers left around it like a half built thing.

Above it was a big hole in the shabby plasterboard wall. It had the gaping, terrified look, of a toothless man about to get hit with something huge.

‘He tried to do it himself.’ Said Sarah.

‘Do what?’ I asked her.

‘Wire the plug. But he got a big shock off it and started shouting. And then he kicked the wall and put a big hole in it and left.’

‘This won’t take us long. But there’ll still be a call out charge.’

‘I don’t mind – he’s paying for it anyway.’

‘We’ll throw a few bulbs in the kitchen too.’

‘Thanks. Sorry you had to come around the back. That’s a new door and the kids lost the keys somewhere. The last one was kicked in.’

‘By who?’

‘Said I owed them money – wanted me to prostitute myself to pay it off.’

‘They know where you live and everything?’

‘They live across the road. I grew up around here. We all did. You’d be walkin down the street and one of the girls would be like – “Hey, Sarah, do you want to go halves on a bag?” and I’m like “No, I’m off it.” And it’s all like how come, and why….and all that. You know?’

 

_____

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