The Art of Breathing Underwater

Chapter 5

Compiling lists was one of my preferred methods of relieving the stupefying boredom of maths class. Sorting a catalogue of my favourite movies, provided my under-stimulated brain with as much work-out as a complex equation. And greater satisfaction upon completion.

I found I could never arrange a definitive list. My favourites fluctuated at the whim of my moods. On happier days, the listing would be top-heavy with comedies. Lately, darker dramas like One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest and Taxi Driver had been ranking high. After some teeth-gnashing deliberation, I printed the selected few onto the cover of my copybook in blue biro.

"Whatcha got there?" Robbie asked, swiping the copybook from beneath my ready pen. He perused my latest list, nodding his head at entries that met with his approval.

"No Mean Streets?"

"The Scorcese picture? I've not seen it. I read an article comparing it to Reservoir Dogs."

"Reservoir Dogs wishes it was Mean Streets."

"That's one helluva statement."

"Mean Streets is one helluva film." Robbie paused. "You doing anything this weekend?"

"My diary's as empty as Goldilocks' bed."

"Fancy coming round mine for a moviethon?"

"I'm well up for it."

My mother wasn't keen on me spending time at somebody's house whom she had not yet vetted. My mum worries too much about me. Due to my arriving into this world ten weeks premature, I spent the initial month of my existence entombed in an incubator. Doctors warned my parents it would be touch-and-go if I survived. Hospitals were my second home for the first four years of my life, thanks to various illnesses, my infancy was beset with more complications than the Apocalypse Now shoot. I don't remember any of this. My mum never forgot.

It took no end of arguing and pleading to get her on board. After constantly chipping away, I eventually wore her down her maternal defences. Still, she seemed pleased to see me smiling again.

Robbie was waiting for me at the stop when the bus arrived in the city centre. From there we made the twenty-minute walk down North Wall Quay with the River Liffey's stifling stench stinging our nostrils.

The Docklands hummed with activity, tower cranes with hoist winches creaking crankily behind billboard covered wooden walls. "This place had a thriving workforce." Robbie pointed up to a shipping container suspended in mid-air, "till Containerisation killed it." I told him how my father had started out as a watchmaker until digitalisation drastically altered his life plan. Now, he worked as a security guard.

"Progress comes at a price only the wealthy can afford," he said.

We entered Sheriff Street. An ominous spray-painted graffiti message on a wall read: 'Guards stay out–Rats stay out.'

Broken glass lay strewn across the pavement, and assorted trash blew in the strong breeze. Children as young as five gleefully battered hell out of a burnt-out car with poles. Close by, an open drain spewed out raw sewage.

Robbie smiled ruefully. "Welcome to our little patch of Paradise."

A pair of junkies, hoods almost completely covering their gaunt faces, gave us the evil eye before strolling on, shoulders hunched and hands buried in their tracksuit pockets.