Читать книгу Ramshorn Republic - Martin McMahon - Страница 4

“Have you ever worked as a courier before?” he asked.

“No, is that a problem?”

“How well do you know the city?”

“I can find my way around” I ventured.

“You need to get a Dublin Streetfinder” he said, “It's the bible”.

I glanced up at him with a raised eyebrow.

“Here” he handed me a copy of the Streetfinder which was beside his keyboard on the desk.

“An A-Z” I mumbled.

“Yeah you’ll need it” he warned “you can get one in Easons”. He pointed to the bottom of the form “Sign that at the bottom”.

As I finished off the application form Alan explained the basics of the job. Collect here, deliver there, head down, arse up, be a good boy and you’ll get good money.

“Can you start next week?”

I nodded.

“Come in at nine on Monday, Sean will be here, he's the Manager. He’ll give you a bag and radio” .He pointed to a line on the application for which stated ‘I confirm that where I am provided with a company jacket, bag and or/other item, I am liable to the company for such item to the full value thereof’.

“I need your RSI number”.

“I don't have it with me”.

“Bring it with you on Monday” he said as he took the form. He wrote on the bottom of the application form ‘Need RSI number’, “Don't forget it”.

“I won t”.

From that moment on I worked for Securicor. As I turned to leave I saw a large red and white sign that declared THE BASE CONTROLLERS DECISION IS FINAL.

“See you Monday” I said as I left.

Monday

The first week was a tough week. I was ropey on the bike and ropey is being kind. I’d dropped it twice. There was no major damage except to my nerves. I was having a nightmare of a time with addresses. I could see it on the Streetfinder but I was having great difficulty finding it on the bike. One particular delivery sticks in my mind. Alan handed me an envelope in the base, BOI for Clanwilliam Terrace.

Alan took the blue folder I was holding, the folder the manager had given to me minutes previously. He opened it up and pointed to the ‘Proof of delivery’ (P.O.D.) form inside.

“Fill in Bank of Ireland in this space and Clanwilliam Terrace in there. Get a signature in this space, make sure you can read it”.

Twenty minutes later I was sitting outside the RDS staring at the street finder map.

“Shit, shit, shit” I cursed. I didn’t want to call on the radio and say that I couldn’t find it. Alan saved me the trouble.

“28 Martin” the radio strapped to my right shoulder blared.

I fumbled with the radio. I couldn’t tell if I was pressing the transmit button properly because the handset was inside a bright blue waterproof holder made of thick plastic with Securicor written on it. It also made it virtually impossible to hear what was said.

“28 Martin” I shouted.

“Hold on 28” Alan's voice blared back at me “don't cut across me”. I didn’t know I had.

“You there 28?” he called thirty seconds later.

“Sorry I can't find it” I yelled over the din of the passing traffic.

“Keep your finger on the button ‘till you finish talking, where are you?”

“RDS”.

“You're too far, turn around, turn around, did you get that?”

“Yes, yes got that”.

“……...eed a signature, get a move on” I caught the end of what Alan was saying when I let go of the transmit button.

I took a final look at the map. I could see Clanwilliam Terrace clearly, I could see Hollis Street, it didn’t look far at all. There were only a few roads between them. I u-turned across the road and headed back the way I had come.

“Bring it back to the base, for fuck sake back to the base” Another twenty minutes had passed. Alan was past pissed and I was no closer to Clanwilliam Terrace. I rolled in five minutes later. Alan reached through the hatch and grabbed the letter.

“Here Christy” he called to one of the bikers in the room “take this straight there and get me a signature”.

Christy took the letter and left. I stood there facing the hatch for a few seconds. Alan was issuing instructions over the mike. I found an unoccupied chair and sat down. I waited to be called again.

Time passed and I improved.

Tony

I crossed City Bridge already twenty yards in front of the wall of traffic just released from the lights at the IFSC. I leaned into the corner accelerating along Sir Johns Rogerson’s Quay. The wide back wheel of my Honda NC30 stuck to the damp blacktop.

“28”.

I released my hand from the throttle and pressed the transmit button “Go ahead”.

“Tony’s down on Townsend Street, take what’s in his bag, do whatever’s on your way and drop the rest in here”.

“Where exactly?”

“At the lights”.

I hit the brakes hard and snaked the back of the bike sharp right into Windmill Lane. Right around the corner accelerating the whole way, immediately left, brake hard, watch the car, drop a gear, throttle through the space, knees in, elbows in, clear to the lights on Pearse Street, brake, drop a gear, do it again, watch the opposite lights, keep the bike rolling slowly forward, wait for them to go amber.

I knew Tony a bit better than most of the guys. He lived within walking distance of me. I’d met his girlfriend and their son. Nice people, decent people. Tony wanted to make bronze sculptures, I remember him telling me that. He was in his early forties but rarely looked it.

Amber.

There is an undeniable sense of them against us with bikers in general. I think it’s fair to say that other road users view us with considerable contempt. Bikers watch out for each other on the road, with couriers it's like a brotherhood.

Red.

Check I'm clear. Throttle back hard, lean right, knee down, second, straighten up, third tuck in, fourth, moving now, left a little, right a lot, the wind whips as I pass traffic to the left and right. An impenetrable wall of traffic in front. I brake hard and squeeze the bike across the path of two slow moving cars, I ignore the blaring horns and bounce the front wheel over the curb onto the pavement. Engine off. Several junkies look over from where they are sitting outside the methadone clinic. I see the junk greedy gleams in their half opened eyes.

‘Can't park it here’ I jump off the bike and push it to the lights and around the corner. I can see the back wheel of a bike flat against the ground. The rest of the bike is obscured by a green double-decker bus. I put my bike on the stand and move forward. I don't really want to see what's there but I’ve got no choice. I round the front of the bus and see Tony lying on his back. A man is standing over him and on the other side of the road a fresh faced Garda is talking into his handset.

“28” I called into the radio.

“28” the controller replied.

“There’s no ambulance here”.

“I’ll call one”.

I knelt down beside Tony. He was conscious and there was no sign of blood. He was however clearly distressed and in pain somewhere.

“You OK?” I asked.

“My bike” Tony groaned.

“I’ll get it”.

I went to pick up the bike. Black oil was leaking form a crack in the engine casing.

“You can’t do that”, it was the man who was standing over Tony. I looked him up and down noting for the first time his bus driver uniform

.

“This is pissing oil” I called over to the Garda “can I put it on the path?”

“Yes” he replied, “there's a van on the way for it”.

“Any chance of an ambulance?”

“On the way” he replied.

“He was flying” the bus driver babbled as I was struggling to pick up the heavy CBR.

“Give me a hand”.

We pushed the bike to the path and I pulled a newspaper out of a nearby bin and put it under the oil leak.

“He really was flying” repeated the driver.

“And you saw him and just kept going” I snapped.

“I couldn’t stop in time”.

“Sounds like it was you who was flying…. Look”, I relented “leave that shite for later, this is Tony, let’s take care of Tony”.

Tony wanted me to take his lid off but I wouldn’t. I thought he was drifting a little and might have banged his head. Tony was upset, it was understandable. One second you’re throttle back, the next address your next destination, and then, bam, you're lying on the damp road, conscious and in pain if you’re lucky, stone cold if you’re not. Even a minor injury can take weeks to heal well enough to go back to work. Some injuries won't heal in a lifetime.

“Keep your head still” I told Tony. I could hear an ambulance siren somewhere nearby.

“He jumped the light” Tony groaned.

Two ambulance men arrived. I gave one of them Tony’s details as the other fitted a neck collar on him. They put him on a stretcher and took him away. I saw the bright blue Securicor satchel on the ground in front of the bus. One of the ambulance crew had cut the strap. I carried it back to my bike as Tony’s bike was loaded into the back of a battered old Garda van.

The base was quiet when I pulled in five minutes later.

“Is he alright?” the controller asked.

“Probably not” I answered “here’s his bag”.

“You’re going to the IFSC, anything in there going that way?” he asked as he looked in the bag.

“Nothin’”.