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Nigel Quinlan was born in Limerick thirty-one years ago, and raised in a tiny but lovable village called Murroe by large and lovable parents.
He decided to be a writer while sitting in an exam that had something to do with computers and which he knew for a fact he was going to fail.
Most of his short stories have been published in Irish and British magazines. He has completed one novel and is hunting for a publisher.
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We hope you’ll enjoy this exclusive on-line publication of Nigel Quinlan’s ‘Java’, a story which appears in the Aeon Press collection “This Way Up”
I didn't want to go.
"I don't want to go," I said.
"You're going," said Mackey, "and I don't care if you're afraid you'll give your girlfriend a bad impression or not, you're going."
"She's not my girlfriend."
The streetsweepers were unloading their carts and making their assaults on the piles of rubbish that littered the streets after the night's riots. A black maria and a squad car came creeping around a corner. The streetlights were broken so the headlights were blinding as they passed over us. The squad car stopped beside us. Then it started moving again.
There was petrol still burning in the middle of the street. There were rocks and stones everywhere. A TV van pulled up and men started unloading equipment. They looked around at the broken windows, the wrecked cars, the flames. It had been some party.
Mackey was disgusted and short-tempered because he hadn't been let join in the fun last night. We'd been told to get a night's sleep and to be up nice and early. We were going for coffee. There was no one else on the streets. They'd gone home to bed or to bleed to death in emergency rooms or get worked over in the cop-shop. Me, I didn't mind so much. I don't like crowds.
"You should ask her out, you know," said Mackey. "Ask her out for a drink or to the cinema."
"Yeah, I know," I said. "But, like, it's not easy for me, you know? You can chat up birds like nobody's business, but that's you. Me, I'm, you know, I'm..."
"Ah, don't tell me you're shy!"
We passed a junction. I looked down. Fire trucks were clustered around the road and tired men in slickers and yellow hard hats leaned against the red machines. Smoke came pouring from the building, blackening the dawn air. One of the men was sitting against the wheel, a blood-soaked handkerchief held to his forehead. The other men seemed to have forgotten him. There were rocks all over the road, dents in the engines and broken windshields. They eyed us warily.
"So much for the cinema," I said.
"I'd have gone for the fucking school, if I was them. Closed it down, got a bit of a holiday, y'know? Kids these days - they just don't think ahead, do they?"
"Well, maybe I am shy! Just because you're outgoing and more sociable than I am, you think there's something wrong with me, don't you? You think I'm weird!"
"Ah, now, Joe, not me. I don't think anything of the fucking sort! I'm just trying to help you out, like."
Two groups of teenagers came tearing down the street. There were about eight chasing three, and the eight were closing. As they passed us, the three were caught. The eight swarmed over them, legs flying, arms rising and falling. There was the sound of wet meat being slapped, screams, cries, curses, laughter. Mackey waded in, seized one fella by the collar of his t-shirt and hauled him out. Immediately the rest of them stopped what they were doing and looked at us, breathing heavily, fists clenched and ready for more. They were all wearing jeans and t-shirts garishly proclaiming themselves to be fans of various heavy metal bands. The three they had caught lolled in their arms or crawled on the ground. They were wearing the remains of suits and ties.
Mackey shook the fella he was holding.
"What the fuck do you think you're doing?"
"Aw, Dad," whined the young fella. "We're just havin' a bitta craic, like! They're wankers, they were hiding shit-scared in the park and we were just gonna beat the shit out of 'em."
"What time of the night do you call this, eh?" demanded Mackey. "Does your mother know where you are? Does she? Well, does she?"
"No! But, Dad, it's a Saturday night, there's no school!"
"Did you go to Mass last night? Don't lie, you little bollocks, I'll find out."
"No, I'll go tomorrow! I promise I will!"
"You'd better, you'd bloody better, boy. Don't let me find out that you didn't."
Colin wriggled out of his father's grip and went back to the group. We walked on. Behind us the sounds all started up again. Mackey's got a great way with kids.
"Anyway," said Mackey, "you know I don't think you're weird but let's face it, you'll never have the pleasure of watching your young grow up if you don't overcome this shyness."
"I know," I sighed.
"They're not going to come to you, like, you have to go to them."
"Yeah," I said.
The front windows of the cafe hadn't been broken and the street seemed cleaner than most. The towering bulk of Ben the Bouncer leaned by the door.
"Bit of trouble tonight, eh?" said Mackey.
"Not really," said Ben the Bouncer, and he smiled at us with a mouthful of cracked teeth. Then he held the door open. We went in.
There were only two tables occupied. One by a young couple holding hands and kissing, the other by a shell-shocked group of young people picking at sandwiches; one of them asleep with his head down, drooling on the table. All young. Only the young were awake at this time of the morning. It was a young people's cafe. Posters for cult films were plastered over the walls. A U2 album was playing over the stereo. A large mirror with twisted, gilded frame hung from one of the walls. Ads for concerts and plays were stuck all over the front of the counter. I liked the place, myself. Mackey just isn't interested in any place that doesn't serve drinks.
While we looked at the menus she came around from behind the counter and approached the table. I'd hoped she wouldn't be working the late shift tonight, or that the bother outside would have scared her home, but with Ben on the door the place was as safe as it got, and with Andy Fanning as owner and manager she wouldn't dare to leave before her shift was up.
She was wearing a red and black felt dress that went down to her ankles. She had Docs on her feet. Her blonde hair was tied in a long, thick pigtail that swung across her slender waist. Her face was round and soft, her eyes wide and bright. When she leaned over and placed her notebook on the table to write our order, I could see down her dress.
I ordered a mug of Java coffee, and Mackey ordered a mug of tea. When she was gone, he leaned over. "Next time," he said, "try leaning over a little further and you'll fall right into her cleavage."
I could feel myself blushing.
"Okay, come on. Now's your chance. Talk to her, for God's sake. It's really quiet and she's not too busy so she should be able to stop for a chat. Go on, right?"
I nodded, desperately searching for some sort of topic I could engage her with. It was now or never. Loving someone from afar has, I suppose, a certain comfort to it. You need never risk anything, never endanger your emotions; you're safe in your cocoon of self-pity. But I think it was C S Lewis who said, "You can't be a good egg forever. You either hatch or go bad." Mackey was right. It was time to come out of my shell. Time to take the plunge.
She came back with the tea and coffee and set them down. Before she could go I laughed. It was high-pitched and squeaky, which really irritates me, but I wanted to put her at her ease. "I really like my coffee," I told her. "And that Java, it's my real favourite, y'know?"
She smiled slightly and nodded.
"But, you know caffeine? That's actually a sort of drug, like cocaine or heroin, only it's completely legal. Isn't that weird?"
She nodded again. I wished she'd lean on the table again, too.
"Like, what it does is stimulate, you know, your nervous system? It stimulates your nervous system and it gives you this lift. It stops you from feeling sleepy and you can think more clearly and work better. But, like, your stomach gets lots of acid, so it can help give you ulcers, and if you drink really lots of it it can give you heart disease or even bladder or kidney cancer. Isn't that amazing? Oh and it makes you piss lots, too. And you can overdose on it! Yes, you can. Ten grammes'll kill you! 'Course, that's like a hundred cups of coffee, so there're easier ways to do it, y'know?"
I smiled up at her. She was staring down at me, wide-eyed. I'd learned all that from a student pamphlet on drugs. I hoped she was impressed.
Of course, that was when Andy Fanning came in and spoiled it. Himself and his brother Tom came in the door wearing long black coats and carrying plastic rubbish bags in each hand. Andy's jaw dropped when he saw us.
"Hey!" he said, then he looked at his brother, then back at us. "Hey!" he said again. "Mackey and Joe! What are you doing here this time of the morning?"
When I turned to her again, she was gone.
"Pull up a chair," said Mackey. "Have a cup of coffee with us. Joe here could make your hair stand on end with some of the things he knows about coffee."
Andy pushed his bags onto his brother and whispered something to him. Then he came and sat beside us, unbuttoning his coat. Tom went behind the counter and disappeared.
"So," said Andy. "What are you doing here?"
Mackey smiled. People are always asking us that question.
"Waiting for you, Andy. Waiting for you."
His face developed a nervous tick. "Well, lads, I'm sorry but I really don't have time to chat. This riot has fucked up nearly everything I own, you know? This place is the only place that hasn't been fucked up tonight, and that's just because Benny the Bouncer could take on a whole riot himself with one arm tied behind his back. So you'll understand if I have to rush."
"Sure," said Mackey, soothingly. "Sure. So give us the sacks and we'll be on our way."
Andy blinked. Then his face sagged as understanding dawned.
"That's right," said Mackey. "Tonight's fun and games were brought to you by the boss who wants you to know that if you want to do laundry here, it's fine with him. Just be sure and drop off his share, or next time you'll find out why everyone's so scared of him."
"No," Andy was shaking his head. "No, I can't. They'll kill me, they'll..."
"No they won't," said Mackey. "Shall we show you why?"
I closed my eyes. Violent energies throbbed all around me, overpowering.
Black light came streaming out of the mirror, a shaft of utter blackness stabbing the morning. Sandwiches began to twitch. Amidst the lettuce and chicken, tiny pale arms and legs struggled to raise themselves. Mugs of tea and coffee turned red, and steamed. Behind the couple, a wide-eyed ghoul peeled itself from the poster and draped itself over the girl. It pinned her to her seat with a devouring kiss and fixed a clawed hand in the boy's chest. One of the group, asleep, began pounding his head against the table. The rest threw their heads back and screamed, except the one whose head was in the black shaft. Her nails screeched across the wood of the table.
Ben came up behind me, which was sort of smart because most guys go for Mackey first. His hand, reaching for me, blackened and twisted. He fell to the floor. I kept it all away from the kitchen, and she stayed safe inside. Andy shook 'til his cheeks trembled and his wig slid off.
We left carrying two bags each. Things were calming down inside, a little.
"A Romeo you ain't," said Mackey.
"No?"
"It was a nice try, don't get me wrong. For you, I suppose, anyway. We'll just have to give your technique a little more work, right?"
"Right," I said. I was without a love, without a date, but at least I'd tried. Who knows? - if I kept at it, I was surely bound to get somewhere.
(c) 1997 by Nigel Quinlan. All copyrights retained.
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