Tales Of The Gurrier

It was hot, too damn hot. By 11am the booze had run out, a bad start to the day. The hovel was a sweltering pigsty and The Gin Lady was in a foul mood.

‘Get me a drink Paddy. I need a fucking drink just to look at you’.

It was too much. I had to get out of there. Shut her up with cheap gin and cooking sherry. It meant a trip to the shopping centre but there was no getting around it. It was gin or violence and today I had the stomach for neither.

The shopping centre. What circle of hell is reserved for the makers of shopping centres. Slumped against the M50 like concrete roadkill, a massive manmade turd steaming in the bright sunlight. Filled to bursting with terrifying heaps of mangled humanity, gurning freaks gobbling septic chicklegs, pigeon chested gurriers in ridiculous pants and neon painted Toyota Sparrowfarts, hatchet face young wans with jam and snot encrusted childspawn. Acres of sunburned flesh wobbling in the artificial light. Blanchardstown shopping centre, mall of the damned. People get stabbed here, people get murdered here, people buy crap here. Lots and lots of crap.

As I pulled into the carpark child midgets on bikes circled the cars looking for an easy mark. I parked and counted out my greasy tenners. The rent would have to wait, gin was needed. It was time to enter the fleshpits of Blanchardstown and purchase some booze.

Inside the heat was worse. A suffocating, clammy humidity pressing against my face. The place was rancid with sweaty teenagers and bored looking pramfaces. Just let me get to the Boozepile and it will all be ok. Five minutes and I’ll be in and out. Head down I pushed my way through the crowds. I could see the entrance now just a few feet away. I could see my goal, row after row of tramp label gin waiting inside the door in the bargain bins of Boozepile. It was then, mere inches from safety that my luck ran out.

“Are you the fugitive!”
The woman had a face like a butcher’s elbow and a mad glint in her rheumy eyes.
‘Oh Jesus they’ve found me,’ I thought. ‘They know what I’ve done! Act natural you fool, feign ignorance’

“What?”

Her grip on my arm tightened. She looked insane, glancing around I saw she had allies in the crowd. Huge bulbous women slathered in orange make up pressed in closer to hear my answer. Christ how did they know?Who told them?

“Are you the 98FM fugitive?”

“Jesus no.”

“You have to tell me if you are. Have you envelopes?”

She made a grab at my envelope of greasy tenners. She wanted the booze money! The landlord I could deal with but The Gin Lady would murder me if I lost the cash supply for the booze.

“No!” I shouted. “Get away, I’m not the fugitive, I haven’t done anything.”

I pulled away from the mad woman, frantically stuffing the tenners into my pants.

“Is he the fugitive?’ an ancient blubbery crone wheezed from a bench.

‘He says he not,’ said the madwoman eyeing me with suspicion and naked aggression.

I staggered away the mission for booze now forgotten. Something was wrong here. Very wrong. The atmosphere was violent and murderous. Bad things were brewing. A place like this could go up at any moment. Behind me I heard a voice shouting.

“ARE YOU THE 98FM FUGITIVE!”

“No, for the love of Jesus, no.”

“You have to tell me if you’re him. Have you envelopes?”

This woman was enormous. She looked like a shaved gorilla. Huge sausage fingers grasped at my shirt.

“Are you sure you’re not the fugitive?”

Crumbs of chicken burger were stuck to my chest.

“Madam please I beg you. I’m not well, can’t you see. I need my envelopes for booze. Have mercy on a broken man please. I need these envelopes.”

“The envelopes have the prizes,” she muttered to herself releasing me from the sausage grip.

This was too much. The place had gone hysterical. Everywhere deranged women were accosting single men. ‘Are you the fugitive, are you the fugitive,’ they wailed. I had to get out of here. These women were desperate. Horny for criminals with cash stuffed envelopes. I had no chance here amongst these people, they would have me stripped naked and dead in a flash.

Then I saw it, my redemption. A bookshop. I’d be safe there. Safe from the crazy harridans. A bookshop would give me respite from these people. I stumbled in and then the screaming began. The shop was filled with them.

“Look its him. ITS HIM!”

“Go on get ‘im, get ‘im!”

I grabbed a book and pretended to ignore them.

“Are you the fugitive?” the familiar refrain came.

Maybe if I ignore them they will go away.

“IF THE FUGITIVE IS IN THE STORE WILL HE PLEASE OUT UP HIS HAND”

Oh God this was it they had me cornered. Behind me a gaggle of book assistants approached blocking off the aisles. I turned to flee but two women with buggies ran into the shop. They glowed with oranginess.

“I don’t fucking care I’m going to ask him,” said one who resembled a leathery tangerine.

“Are you the 98FM fugitive?”

“Please, for the love of God ladies I am not he. I am not the one you seek.”

I felt a tugging at my trouser leg. Looking down I found myself staring into the jam coated face of an urchin who had escaped from his mobile prison. The urchin looked up at me plaintively and said.

“Are you my daddy?”

I fell back mouthing oaths, that was it, I was doomed. Doomed to die here in this place of evil.

There was a scream from outside the shop and the harridans turned as one.

“I FOUND HIM. I FOUND THE FUGITIVE!”

There was more screaming and a frenzy of scuffling.

“He’s not the fucking fugitive,” said one of the orange goblins shoving me aside and racing out into the scrum of women. Their attention elsewhere I made good my escape.

Outside the shop a mob had gathered whooping and hollering. Nothing was visible, if that poor bastard was in there, there was no hope for him. I saw the gorilla lady wading into the centre of the fray, sausage fists a blur of motion as she pounded anorexic stick ladies into ground beef. The madwoman was there too clutching a blood stained envelope and grinning triumphantly. I caught a glimpse of the urchin gnawing on a string of lumpy intestines as the leather tangerine stuffed a pair of bloody trousers into her handbag.

The Gin Lady would have to make do with lighter fluid cocktails today it was time to leave booze or no.

This entry was posted on Sunday, June 11th, 2006 at 2:19 pm and is filed under Dublin, Stories, Tales of the Gurrier. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.