Mind the Gap

[Braille Face flash fiction no. 10, based on We Were Alive Once.]

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On the train, got a seat, settling back and looking round. Mentally ordering the day: meeting with US clients at ten, calls to make, people to email, report to finish. Checking my phone I wish happy birthday twice, make a great retort to a stupid political comment, view a quick think piece about the future of banking. Posters in the station tell me to read Paul O’Connell’s autobiography. I buy coffee. It’s part of the uniform.

The meeting goes well. I’m full of ideas and the sentences don’t stumble. I can see my boss is impressed with me. I sit forward, sit wide, take up space. I’m on a roll. I note action points and agree dates.

Back at the desk, feeling efficient, I pitch into the emails. It’s sunny out but I sit with my back to the window.

Ticking things off the list, five minutes later I can’t remember what any of them were. What matters is I’m speaking the language: I’m actioning decisions, I’m outlining strategies, I’m identifying stakeholders. There’s a vacancy coming up for a head of section and I plan to apply.

My boss stops by my desk – he’s taking the US visitors out for dinner, would I like to come? I ring my wife to tell her. Yes, of course, she says, stay out, what an opportunity. I can hear the toddler shouting at her in the background. I’m working hard, being the provider, on the way up.

Dinner is at 6.30. I work till six, then go out for fresh air. It’s good to clear the head and be ready for the next test; I rehearse phrases and review the key points of our business connection. It’s a fine late summer evening, shadows starting to lengthen. I wander down towards the river, looking back at the office buildings, the tall glassy blocks all shiny with money, the money that’s started to roll in again, and I think about my shiny future and

 

***

 

“feckin’ culchies feckin’ going off, wrecking the place,” he concludes, bitterly, chucking down his cigarette butt on the pavement next to a dog turd and a drifting plastic bag. “Too right,” I say, not wanting a fight, and draw back from his stubbly face too close to mine, and turn away with a sorry grin to walk back to the main road, where am I, it’s dark, oh yes this is North Strand, there’s the canal and the hill up to the railway crossing, why am I here? There’s a pain over my eye and soreness in my knees as though I’ve fallen, and my throat feels full of knives. The lights of passing taxis confuse me. I take out my phone, fumbling, it’s in the wrong pocket. Ten text messages.

– Hi, in lobby, see you soon.

– Waiting for you.

– Off to restaurant, see you there I hope, would appreciate explanation, hope all well.

– Have not heard from you. Get in touch ASAP.

And more like those. And from the wife. And I haven’t got my wallet, even though I’ve still got my phone. And I see that the time is 11.26pm, just as the phone battery gives out.

What do I do. Start walking. Legs move mechanically, no money for a taxi. The shouts of the night-time druggies and the pub-goers go right through me. It’s a beautiful night, completely clear and despite the streetlights I can see the moon. It shines brilliantly. It catches an answering glint at my feet. I crouch down wincing and pick up an old one punt coin. Someone must have treasured it, because it’s very shiny too.

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