Read by Katy Darby
If you want to blame anyone, blame her.
Miss Manson won't let me leave early, the old cow. She knows I’m the most reliable of all the Saturday girls but no, not even 15 minutes. That precious quarter hour that would allow me to run, breath burning my lungs, across O'Connell Bridge and up to Stephens Green to make the St Kevin's Bus. I tell her if I don’t make it then it's the slow train to Rathnew and I’ll miss my lift to the youth hostel. But she just draws her lips into a thin bow, lipstick leaking into the lines above her mouth. She pats the back of her Elnetted hair.
Snip. Her scissors slice through the thick plastic wrapper on the new ladies’ foundation garments.
"Sure, if I let you off, they'd all be at me to go early."
*
it’s after eight when I start the walk from Rathnew station to the grass verge where I plant my desert boots and stick my thumb out into the road. I’m in luck, the second car stops, a harmless auld one in a Morris Minor on the way back from evening mass. The back seat of the car is filled with flowers, irises and foxgloves - leftovers, she says. The scent of their cut stems is overpowering – like the inside of a florist’s shop or an undertaker's.
"A young one like you shouldn't be thumbing lifts on your own. You wouldn't know who you'd meet, out here.”
As if I don’t know that. I could tell her a thing or two.
All the same, she doesn't offer to drive me all the way and I'm back out on the side of the road at Ashford as the light starts to fade. I think about walking but it’ll be dark before I can cover the four miles. At this rate, the flagons of cider will be drained by the time I get there, and the boys all paired off. My heart is thrumming. It’s almost unbearable the way I want to be stretched out in the long sweet grass, listening to Led Zeppelin on the cassette player with the rest of them.
A battered Cortina pulls over, it might be dark red under all the dirt but I can't be sure. The passenger leans back and flicks the rear door open. Two men. I know it’s risky but it’s been twenty minutes already and god knows how long I’ll be waiting for a lone driver to come along. I slide into the back seat and we are off with a leap, speeding up the country road under the trees. The driver’s neck is covered by a good half inch of grime below a battered hat and there’s a distinct whiff of cowshit.
Great. Mountainy Men. Hillbillies.
“Are ya goin’ down to Roundwood?” The driver speaks to me via the mirror.
“No, just to the youth hostel – are you going that way?”
“We’re going wherever you’re going, chicken.”
“Can you drop me at the gate?”
“Oh, we can surely.”
The passenger curls himself around to look at me. He’s younger than the driver and not bad-looking. He smells of carbolic soap and a strong whack of Denim aftershave. For men who don’t have to try too hard.
“You should come for a drink with us first.”
“I can’t, I’ve to meet my friends.”
“Sure, it’s early yet. You’ve time for a Bacardi and Coke.”
“She’s too young for the pub, aren’t ya?” The driver’s yellow teeth grin at me from the rear-view.
“Oh, I’ve been to pubs, plenty of them.”
“Have ya now? In Dublin?”
“Do you go with your boyfriend?”
“I don’t…”
“Ah she’s shy! Leave her now, she’s too young for a boyfriend.”
“She doesn’t look too young.” The passenger takes a penknife from the breast pocket of his denim jacket and starts to peel an apple into a long green ribbon.
Fear prickles up the back of my neck, this was a bad idea. Joe Dolan is giving it his all on the radio. Your man turns it up and sings along. “Sweet Little Rock ‘n Roller” The Devil’s Glen slips by outside and I try to work out how far we have left to go.
“Have you ever been with a man, darlin’? With a real man I mean now, not a young gorsoon?”
I swallow and look out of the window. Rub my sweaty palms up and down on my thighs. Men. I never know if it’s better to banter or just ignore them.
“I’d say she’s a virgin, now.” And he taps the brim of his hat on the rosary beads hanging from the mirror.
The passenger holds out the knife, the apple peel coils over it, dangling down, balanced on the blade.
“Is that right, chicken? Are you a virgin?”
He flicks the peel into the footwell and slices the white flesh of the apple towards him, then holds it out to me.
“Want a bit?”
“No thanks.”
“You don’t want a drink and you don’t want any apple. What do you want?”
“Nothing. Just a lift to the hostel.”
What I really want is to get out of this stinking car and away from these creeps.
“Did your mother not teach you any manners, pet? What about a “Please” or a “Thank you”?”
“Please.”
In my pocket, I open my flick knife and touch the point softly.
“Oh, don’t worry, darlin’. We’ll give you what you want, all right.”
They laugh in harmony, delighted with themselves.
Where will they take me? What will happen, afterwards? I feel really sick now. Maybe I can vomit on him. Without warning, the car skids into the laneway and stops dead, jerking me forwards. I can see the lights of the youth hostel through the trees. Why aren’t the girls here to meet me? They must think I’m not coming now, it’s so late.
“Thanks.”
I unstick my legs from the vinyl seat and reach for the door. He grabs at my shoulder.
“Ye’re sure you don’t want that drink now?”
In my pocket, I jab my fingers hard on the tip of the knife. The pain clears my head. No-one is getting hurt tonight. We’re all just having a laugh. Great craic altogether.
“No, you’re all right. Thanks for the lift, lads.”
He draws his arm back and I scramble out. While they’re turning turn the car I reach out and draw an X on the passenger window with my bloody finger. He pulls back, mouth hanging open and they take off out of there like a rocket. I run up the lane as if the devil himself is after me.
It’s a close call and a lucky escape. A valuable lesson learnt; there’s no way I could have fought the two of them. In the coming years, I will claim ten lone male drivers, leaving them dead on the road, before they track me down.
(c) Aileen O'Farrell, 2017
Aileen O’Farrell is a London-based writer and psychotherapy student. She grew up in Dublin, reading and watching black and white films with curtains firmly closed. She writes short stories and flash fiction and has completed her first novel. Her stories pose the question: “What would you do if?”
Katy Darby won the Ronny Schwartz scholarship to the Oxford School of Drama and has appeared in over 30 productions in Oxford, Edinburgh and London. She’s directed several plays, including Time Out Critic's Choice comedy Dancing Bears, and prefers to be behind the scenes, but sometimes steps into the limelight.
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