The Return of the Emancipator

It’s midnight by the Heineken clock and I’m sitting at the base of the O’Connell monument, eating a McDonald’s, when I hear somebody cursing and muttering above me.

Checkout Girl

Snow had been cleared from the street and formed into a knee-high mountain range in the gutter. It was dirty and embedded with scraps of litter. I walked alongside the peaks and valleys, my backpack heavy with cans of beer.


I hammer on the front door with my fist and press the doorbell three times. Somebody is coming down the stairs. A dark male shape behind the nineteen-eighties frosted glass. A muttered curse and a key turning in the lock.