The Art of Breathing Underwater

Chapter 16

I strode down the city's main street, decked in my slick new attire. Black leather jacket, open and flapping in the breeze. Faded blue boot-cut jean ends obscuring all but the caps of my shiny black boots. The footwear took adjusting to, my feet accustomed to sole-friendly trainers. Though the tightness was worth it. The uniform, complete. I was, for the first time in my life, in fashion.

I passed the multi-million dollar, 150 meters tall Spire of Dublin, colloquially known as the stiletto in the ghetto or the pin in the bin, a monument to the country's newfound prosperity. In the past few months, a fresh buzzword had entered the lexicon; Celtic Tiger. The term referred to the economic boom the country was currently experiencing. The effects of which were filtering through to the man on the street.

Three days ago, I landed a new job. I'd called into Keith's over the holidays. He had recently started working an evening shift for a pharmaceutical supplier. He assured me there were plenty of jobs available and promised to put in a word for me. I thought little of it, putting it down to drunk talk. Two days later, he appeared at my doorstep, and I had an interview the following morning. It lasted five minutes. A few years ago, it had taken my dad eighteen months to find work. Spent every day scouring the wanted ads and offers pinned to the dole office noticeboard. I—a schoolboy—had been out of a job for nine weeks. I hadn't been seeking alternative employment; it found me. Times were changing.

Robbie answered the door, wearing a grin so wide you could recline on it. "Almost didn't recognise you."

"Happy new year!"

I handed him his belated Christmas present. A Robert DeNiro biography, and a black-and-white still from Taxi Driver. Travis Bickle, grinning manically with a gun in either hand.

"Bleeding deadly," Robbie said, chuffed. His face changed, "I didn't get you anything."

"No biggie." Smile masking my slight disappointment.

He put the TV on. "Beer? Me ma left two six-packs in the fridge. We have a tacit arrangement. As long as there's one pack still intact when she gets back, she won't skin us alive."

We sat on the settee sipping from cold, perspiring long-neck bottles, smelling of cologne and fresh clothes. Junior men, swapping stories about our good fortune on the job front.

Robbie had won a role in a contemporary soap set in Dublin. "I'm playing a Nigerian."

"Don't tell me they expect you to go all Eddie Murphy in Coming to America with the accent."

He laughed. "Nah, they want my proper Dublin brogue. My character's supposed to reflect the new multi-cultural nature of the city. It's quite tactful, which is surprising. I'm enjoying researching the role—you know there are five hundred different languages spoken in Nigeria."

"I struggle with one."

"They don't speak five-hundred languages. There're two-hundred and fifty ethnic groups in the country... Fascinating place. It's mad, but I've never given much thought to my African connection...Spend every day proving my Irishness, that I've just kinda forgotten the strands woven into my DNA. I've only ever been back to Jamaica. Once. When I was little..." He stared off into the middle distance.

He blinked and shook his head. "I've got the script here if you wanna take a gander." I nodded, and he vanished upstairs.

Robbie, the soap star. I was made up for him.

He slipped something into my hand. Too small to be a script. A ticket. Jan 12 SFX. 8.00 pm. SUEDE. In bold print. "I-what...?"

"The look on your face."