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Night walking on Laganside

A restless soul steps into the night.

By Liam TunneyPublished 2 years ago Updated 2 years ago 12 min read
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A lone dog meandered down the footpath outside Sean’s house. A greyhound, he thought, but it was hard to be certain in the half-light of the empty street.

It reminded him of an old television set that had lapsed into resignation when he was a child, cloaking the screen in green translucence. Sean slipped on his coat.

He closed his eyes momentarily, hoping to clear the haze. When he reopened them, the dog had vanished.

Stepping outside, he closed the heavy wooden door in his wake. The click of the lock echoed in the quiet street. The chill from the brass handle stung the fingers on his right hand.

He pulled his scarf closer around his neck and tucked it carefully into the collar of his coat. Plunging his hands into his pockets with an exaggerated shiver, he made his way down the street.

The lights from neighbours’ houses were few and far between. Sean’s street was full of families, and the sound of laughter could be heard throughout the afternoon as children played.

The dog eyed him as he turned the corner of the street. He walked under the gaze of the grinning Bobby Sands mural and onto the Falls Road. Night’s distant sounds crept into earshot.

Youngsters’ cries carried in the still air from nearby Dunville Park. He imagined blue bags. Big bottles of cheap cider. The rush of faux maturity brought on by that first drink.

The brutal reality when the remnants of an ill-advised kebab decorated the ground in front of you. His contemplation was disturbed by a jubilant yell.

Sean smiled knowingly and continued to stroll down the hill in the direction of the city. The night was still young.

He could hear the muted rabble from the nearby pubs rising and falling like evening waves as he passed them one-by-one.

Men and women outside killing themselves with tobacco. The smell of something stronger reaching his nostrils.

He hesitated a while before entering the Laurel Leaf bar. He glanced around, taking in the unusually large weeknight crowd that had gathered. Ordering a pint, he settled into a stool to observe.

The majority were older men — seasoned drinkers — giving unsolicited advice to inattentive peers. There was one group of women among them.

“Fuckin’ mutton dressed as lamb,” sneered the bar man, placing Sean’s pint on the bar in front of him, “£2.60 please mate.”

Sean paid him and returned to crowd-watching. In one corner of the bar sat a group of young women drinking bottles of bright blue liquid that could only be WKD or some cheaper imitation.

Sean thought they looked too young to be in the bar at all, but with enough make-up on to deceive the bouncers. If they cared. He sipped his pint.

There was music coming from the television, MTV or one of the other variants of the genre.

The older men weren’t keen, but if it brought in a crowd of young women to the pub, they would tolerate its mind-numbing dialogue and poor taste.

Another sip.

Sean became aware of people behind him speaking Irish. Two men, younger than him, in their early twenties maybe. Sean loved situations like this.

The lads assumed no one else in the bar would understand their conversation, and they cared not one iota what they said.

“What do you think of that one in the pink?” began the red-haired man sitting immediately behind him.

“Aye, good,” came the blunt reply.

“Without a doubt. Any word from that other arsehole?”

“Not a thing! Tell him this place is full of women, he’ll be here in a shot.”

“Try it. I’ll need someone to talk to when you’re away chasing weemen!”

One of the young women walked past towards the toilets.

The boys were entranced and conversation in any language appeared impossible until she had passed.

“Wonder where they’re for tonight?”

“Somewhere we’re not,” retorted the red-haired man, lifting his glass, “now come on, drink up and we’ll head to the Lodge.”

The pair finished their drinks, put on their coats and disappeared into the night. Sean allowed himself a smile.

The old men, the young lads, the women, the young girls. Timeless.

“The young, the old, the brave and the bold came their duty to fulfil,” he hummed to himself.

He threw back the rest of his pint. Time to leave.

Night traffic’s distorted rumble greeted Sean as he made his way across the empty car park towards the Falls’ road.

Dodging the potholes that littered the pavement, he continued his journey towards the city centre.

Down the hill he went, past murals that thronged with tourists during the day, but in darkness, glared silent judgement at passers-by.

Maghaberry Prisoners — Not Forgotten! screamed one.

He moved on past the abandoned St Comhghall’s Primary School, trees springing from its once pristine playgrounds and neat brickwork.

Forgotten.

He noticed a young man and woman coming towards him. As they drew closer, he could make out a strong American accent from the woman, who was launching into a series of questions about the murals.

Luckily, her companion had all the answers, or at least the articulacy to sound as if he did.

Yer man will be lucky tonight, thought Sean to himself, as he passed them without a word being exchanged.

Gradually the city centre came into view, the lights becoming brighter and the sounds increasing in volume.

Walking down Castle Street, Sean heard music rising as the doors were opened, then muting almost immediately as they swung shut, leaving only the excited chatter of exiled smokers. He walked on this time.

Rounding the corner to Bank Square, he could see a small group of people fooling around with a shopping trolley.

They looked too old to be engaging in low-level anti-social behaviour, but just about young enough to get away with it.

One man was in the trolley, with two more pushing it, as a group of girls watched, high on a cocktail of embarrassment and intrigue.

A high-pitched shriek pierced the night as, with a loud crack, the trolley tipped and collided with the cobbled street, prompting raucous laughter from all involved.

Well, almost all. The man on the trolley showed no sign of laughter, and for a brief moment their merriment turned to concern.

Then the man broke into a giggle and concern gave way to relief. Sean slipped past unseen and continued his journey.

In he went past Bank Buildings and to the city centre; Royal Avenue. There were more people here, milling around.

Women in high shoes on the verge of capitulation.

Young men in checked shirts and wide jeans hurried along in the bitter air. A youth in revolt, without cause.

They paraded down Castle Place. Sean followed the crowd.

One man walked separately from the main group. His eyes appeared fixed on a distant spot and the look on his face was one of anger.

He moved much faster than the others, as if trying to out-walk whatever had incensed him. Sean glanced behind him, but there was no one following.

It was clear he’d had his fill for the evening. He moved quickly, but haphazardly, bouncing into shop windows and almost crashing to the ground on a number of occasions.

Sean lost sight of him behind the crowd. Scratching his head in bewilderment, he sunk his neck into the collar of his coat and moved on.

The crowd moved slowly, and people left it gradually as they reached their destinations. He imagined it like a big bus, picking passengers up in one place and dropping them off outside the various pubs and clubs.

Reaching Tomb Street, he almost followed them blindly into their chosen nightclub, but resisted the aroma of perfume, sweat and smoke. He turned and walked on.

Another group of revellers came hurtling towards him down the road. Two of them were singing at the top of their lungs. Sean listened carefully, craning his neck to make out the slurred lyrics.

“Read the Roll of Honour, of Ireland’s bravest men…”

He grinned to himself. On the Fall’s Road, this song would have been hailed. Here in the city centre, in the Cathedral Quarter, it was less welcome.

“We must be united, in memory of the ten…”

An image of the mural he had passed at the beginning of his journey entered into his mind. Bobby Sands on the wall.

Poet.

“England you’re a bastard…”

Irishman.

“Don’ t think that you have won…”

Revolutionary.

“We will never be defeated…”

IRA volunteer.

“When Ireland has such sons!”

The pair walked past, and he greeted them with a grin of recognition, but they were too engrossed in their revolutionary reverie to notice.

They walked on, talking loudly, in some doubt about their ability to make it past the nightclub doormen after their exhuberant performance.

He considered sticking around to discover their fate, but decided against it and rounded the corner towards the Lagan Bridge.

Across the river stood the Odyssey Arena, and beyond that, East Belfast.

It was a place he had seldom visited. The Protestant end of Belfast and a hotbed of sectarianism, according to his own community.

Sean knew that this was entirely unreasonable, but it was just easier to nod and agree.

He stopped in the centre of the bridge to watch the moon’s reflection glitter on the Lagan’s swishing waters.

In a few hours morning would erase its haunting beauty, but here on the bridge, high above the water, Sean felt content.

There weren’t many on the bridge, the majority chasing their fortune in nightclubs by this stage. A man and woman strolled past, hand in hand, without as much as a cursory glance in his direction.

Stay away from the madman on the bridge, Sean supposed.

He waited a few seconds there before returning the way he came.

His eyes settled on the Big Fish, a statue built following the 1998 Good Friday Agreement. Or Belfast Agreement, as they would see it across the bridge. The great vision of peace.

But there was something different about it tonight.

Sean watched a man clambering onto the top of its head. From behind the fish a box came into view, before the man helped his companion onto the fish’s back.

They each took a can of beer from the box and opened them. Sean was close enough to hear the satisfying fizz from the pair of cans.

“Sláinte, ye bastard ye!”

Sean stopped. Did they speak Irish too?! Gaeilgeoirí, sitting on the Belfast Fish in the early hours of the morning supping tins of beer? Heroes!

The men continued in English.

“That’s class, in Spanish we say ‘Salud!’”

“There ye go, we’re trilingual, between the two of us like!”

The men burst out laughing.

“You are so full of shite! Get that down ye!”

The pair sat in silence for a short while. Sean watched them as they stared out onto the Lagan’s swell. Then the second person spoke.

“Who knows where we’ll be this time next year mate…”

“Hopefully on the top of this fish drinking tins of Harp!”

“I’ll drink to that.”

They raised their cans together again and the first man spoke.

“Salud!”

“Pronunciation’s a bit out, but you’re learning. C’mon we’ll go for a pish in the Lagan!”

“It’d be quite a statement?”

“C’mon to fuck!”

They knocked back the dregs of their cans and off they went down the steps to the small jetty that served this part of the River Lagan.

Sean watched them disappear down the steps. He shook his head again. This city is rammed with lunatics, he thought to himself.

He quickened his step and headed for home.

It was drawing on four o’clock in the morning when Sean reached the Grosvenor Road. He was almost home.

Walking past the police station he paused, staring for a moment at the station and up at the overpass.

The road had little traffic on it at this time of the morning, just the occasional taxi stalking their way around the city.

As he passed the Royal Victoria Hospital, Sean heard the blaring of an ambulance siren. He hummed along through fitful laughter as its distinctive sound receded into the early morning calm.

Reaching the Springfield Road, he spotted another man and woman walking together up the road. As he drew closer, he stole a breath. She was enchanting.

That man doesn’t deserve her, he tried to convince himself.

Maybe he could fight him, give him a good kicking. That’d work.

He didn’t. They were oblivious to his presence. He watched them kiss briefly as they moved into the yard of a nearby house and the man fumbled for his key in the pocket of his jeans. Sean greeted them as he passed. They didn’t respond.

Sure I’m nearly home anyway, he murmured to himself. And he was.

He walked past the mural again. Poet, Gaeilgeoir, Revolutionary, IRA Volunteer.

Anything else? Sean inquired of the night sky. Maybe he suffered from schizophrenia.

He turned into his street. The red brick houses were illuminated with flashing red and blue lights. There were people out on the street, all his neighbours.

There were tears. Fire officers moving swiftly back and forth. An ambulance. The police as well. Jesus, had there been a bomb?

He moved closer and took up a place on the edge of the gathered crowd. He looked at the house.

His house. Black with smoke, the insides hollowed by the devastating blaze.

Two paramedics exited the house with a long stretcher. A body lay on the stretcher, covered in an ashen shroud.

A neighbour maybe? Sean was confused.

Had someone broken into his house when it caught fire? Did someone start it deliberately and get caught up in it?

He tried to ask the crowd.

“What happened? That’s my house, was there anyone around when it started? I was only away a few hours!” he pleaded with them, but to no avail.

Slumping in resignation to a sitting position on the cold pavement, he spotted the dog.

The crowd dispersed solemnly, and the amber pall of the streetlights fell on the scene once again.

The dog appeared to be grinning, finding humour in the dark events that had unfolded on the street. His street.

No one noticed him. No one greeted him. They walked past as strangers had all night.

Morning began to break. Chimney tops began to billow. Soon the street was bathed in the dawn glow.

Early risers, stirred by the birdsong, opened their doors to the day, chattering earnestly about the tragic events of the previous night.

An elderly neighbour shook her head at passers-by who lingered at the still-smouldering house.

“We hardly knew him,” she mused aloud.

Short Story
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About the Creator

Liam Tunney

Journalist with The Belfast Telegraph.

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