Gurriers (59 page)

Unfortunately for poor Gary, the oncoming traffic was an articulated petrol tanker crawling towards Tallaght that was somewhere in the region of three quarters full at the time. Because of the low speeds involved, the cab of the lorry succeeded in swerving to avoid the bike that suddenly but slowly slid into its path. Having swerved in such a manner on this surface, however, the driver hadn’t got a hope of controlling the back of his lorry. It was down to fate to keep our compatriot safe in the absence of control from both parties and fate was not on Gary’s side that day. His bike, with him helplessly attached to it, slid under the back wheels of the lorry. Gary was crushed to death, slowly mangled with his machine under the weight of many tons of liquid.

To this day the first thing that comes to mind when recalling this episode is the horror that Gary must have experienced in the last moments of his life. I hope and pray that shock kicked in early to prevent him suffering. I truly want to believe that this is so, as does all of my kind. We have all experienced shock and we all know that it prevents us from feeling any of the effects of a trauma until much later. So it is with non-fatal injuries and logic would decree that with fatal injuries, when there is no later, there should be no suffering. I am almost fully convinced of that and I have heard many couriers say that it must be true. There is no suffering involved in a sticky ending.

My doubts about the validity of this statement are the stuff of my deepest darkest nightmares; a Pandora’s Box of unspeakable terrors that will not be opened in these pages. For the sake of my sanity, I hope never to open this box. Ever!

By Tuesday the vast majority of the ice on the roads had melted, leaving only harmless clumps of grotesquely shaped remnants, contaminated by the sand that the corporation had spread on the ice at its worst. There was still snow on the tops of the Dublin Mountains across the horizon and would be for a couple of weeks, but that was of no consequence to us.

Somebody counted 63 bikes outside the church in Coolock, with the corresponding amount of couriers waiting to mount up and follow the hearse to Balgriffin Cemetery, before they brought out Gary’s coffin and loaded it into the hearse.

I was back on my CB, which felt great after the days of driving the CG. The lack of ice on the roads brought a palpable buzz with it also, combining with the buzz of having so many couriers around me to leave me in a much better mood than the occasion demanded. Everyone else was in great form also; the true loss they were feeling only being betrayed by the far away stares during lulls in the conversation, which, of course, was dominated by shared adventures with the departed. Having so few such stories made me feel somehow like a fake of sorts, although the story of my first smoke from a joint in years being one of Gary’s and the consequent greener at the kiosk went down a treat every time I told it.

Charlie and Gizzard and the rest of the Thailand expedition had only arrived back in Ireland that Sunday. None of them had come back to work yet, experience having taught them to re-acclimatize before committing to full days on two wheels. It was quite eerie to see familiar faces look so foreign, between their out of place tans and the body language which betrayed how cold they felt on this day - the mildest that we had experienced in several weeks. I couldn’t stop a smirk from momentarily taking over my face at the notion of me being hardier than Charlie and Gizzard, but I wisely kept my mouth shut about it.

A hush descended on the assorted compatriots when the coffin was brought out just ahead of the chief mourners: his parents, his wife, his two children and his brother. This scene brought home the true nature of the gathering to everybody, with the solemnity watering many eyes and putting lumps in many throats, as Gary was silently rolled into position aboard the hearse.

Nobody moved until the chief mourners were all in their car, which was to follow the hearse, then the bikers and then the other mourners. Normally 60+ couriers mounting their bikes to ride in a pack would be a pretty entertaining and fun filled
scramble incorporating lots of messing, but under these conditions it was an orderly affair.

The sound of so many engines being fired up still got the blood racing through my veins at excitement level though. The discipline carried over to the ride to the graveyard. Everybody except the four traffic stoppers held position and pace in the formation that we left the church in. The traffic stoppers - Vinno and Paddy Murray on the right and Three Michael and Leo on the left - kept the traffic stopped at the intersections and roundabouts until the whole procession got through, then, after acknowledging the patience and understanding of the motorists with a wave, sped along their respective sides to get to the front of the pack for the next intersection. This was done with military precision. Sadly, they had lots of practice at funeral driving.

The bikes stopped and parked at the gates of the graveyard and we proceeded after the two funeral cars on foot. For the graveside ceremony we kept well back so as not to hamper proceedings in any way. His family and other friends had plenty of space around the grave, despite the large number of couriers present. It was evident here also that couriers unfortunately had lots of funeral experience. Eight Gary wasn’t just Eight Gary, he was also daddy, husband, brother, son and friend.

After the coffin was lowered into the ground we all filed past his mother, brother and widow to personally pay our respects. My voice cracked on the word “loss”, as I told his widow that I was sorry for her loss, causing her to sob uncontrollably and me to curse myself silently for my lack of decorum.

From the graveyard we went to the nearest pub, Campions on the Malahide Road. We parked all the bikes in the car park behind the pub to avoid the wrong sort of attention, from either gardaí or bike thieves that might have been patrolling the main road.

Once the beer started flowing the benefit of having so many couriers at a funeral became evident. The place was awash with adventure stories about Gary. Peals of raucous laughter rang around the pub. By the time one group’s laughter had subsided
and the eyes had watered in reminiscence, another tale would be reaching its zenith nearby and fresh laughter would lift the spirits of all present.

The hash smoking was confined to one corner of the pub, well away from the family, which the barmen – flat out to keep everybody supplied with drink – chose to turn a blind eye to. They had known Gary also. He had been barred several times for smoking joints there and it was a fitting tribute for the mourners to smoke their brains out at his funeral.

The Irish are known worldwide for sending their dearly departed into the next life on a wave of merriment and alcohol, and who’s to say that this isn’t the best way to do it? Certainly not me! In this respect, as with so many other things, bikers do it better and couriers do it best!

I was just finished my third pint and was on my way to the bar, slowly – due to the amount of conversations with friends involved - when one of the barmen stepped out of the office-type alcove behind the bar with their phone in his hand and shouted,

“Anybody here from Lightning Express?”

Before I knew what was happening a strong hand had pushed me with lots of force between my shoulder blades, sending me stumbling forwards as far as the bar, where I steadied myself with my extended right hand. I straightened up and turned sharply to ascertain who behind me had been responsible.

As my hand left the bar I felt the receiver of the phone being placed in it.

Then the barman was gone to serve somebody, leaving me with no option but to bring the phone to my ear and listen to the last voice on the planet that I wanted to hear.

“Hello, hello, who’s there? Answer me!”

“Uh…hello.”

“Who’s this? What’s happening there? When are youse fuckers comin’ back to work?”

“Em…we’ve been drinking!”

“Well stop fuckin’ drinkin’! I told yiz all that I wanted yiz back after lunchtime. It’s ten to fuckin’ three an’ we’re ou’ the
fuckin’ door! This is Shy Boy I’m talkin’ to, isn’t it?”

This was one time that I so desperately wanted to lie.

“Mmm…hmm.”

“Are you nearly ready to go? I have one in Marksell in the Coolock Industrial Estate comin’ in to Faulkner-Turner. Can I count on you to cover it?”

Any other account and I surely would have refused it point blank.

“I have nearly a full pint in front of me. Is there time on it?”

“It’s just in. Contact Rachel in accounts. Call me when ye have it on board, eat an orange before ye go near them an’ get some strong chewin’ gum. Tell the other fuckers that there’s goin’ to be firin’s if they don’t get their arses back to fuckin’ work!” The line went dead as he hung up, no doubt slamming down the phone back at the base.

“Here’s your phone back.” I handed back the receiver to the barman. “Can I get a pint of Guinness, please? And if that man rings back just tell him that you threw all the couriers out. Cheers!”

“Was tha’ Bollicky Balls, Shy Boy?”

“Sure was.”

“Wha’d ’e say?”

“Just that they were Okay in the job and that yiz could all stay here with his blessing and enjoy a few pints.”

“He did in his shite!”

“Why don’t ye radio in an’ ask him? Ye can use my radio.”

“Fuck off.”

As tempting as it was to leave things like that I made sure to tell Vinno about our base controller’s real instructions before I left. Not that it made any difference; nobody else made it back to work. However, partly due to my getting a good run in and covering a packed run south, high and low, nobody got fired.

Four pints is a lot of alcohol to consume before driving a bike, especially under working conditions, but my trepidations were more than cancelled out by the effects alcohol had on me. Therein lies the tragic irony of drinking and driving. The more alcohol consumed the lower the ability to drive, but the greater
the desire to experience the drive. Not only is the drinker’s balance and judgement and motor skills impaired, but he is more likely to drive – or sadly, in a lot of cases – attempt to drive in a dangerous manner.

I did have the sense to follow my base controller’s instructions regarding the smell of beer off me. I went straight from the pub to the nearest shop and bought two oranges, a packet of extra strong mints and some chewing gum that claimed to be the best at freshening breath. One of the oranges was scoffed in a drunken manner before leaving the shop, the other was kept for when I would be in town, just before going into Faulkner-Turner, so that I would not reek of beer so much when I made a move on the lovely Regina.

Another reason why one shouldn’t work when drinking – the emphasis that alcohol places on the desires of the one eyed monster! Despite having four pick-ups on the way in and a total of seven companies to either pick up from or drop off in before reaching Hatch Street and Faulkner-Turner, I clumsily bundled my way into Regina’s workplace an impressive 30 minutes after leaving Marksell in Coolock.

Not only did people who had been drinking drive faster, but they were also more abrupt and less likely to tolerate any delays. I was reported to the base four times that afternoon, two of which were en route to Faulkner-Turner and Regina.

So there I was, reeking of oranges, extra strong mints and Guinness, glossy eyed and sporting one of those mindless, stupid grins that men often wear exactly when they shouldn’t, proffering the Marksell package with my sticky, stained fingers under the cool calm gaze of a lady so marvellously composed as only one who truly realises how gorgeous she is can be.

“Howya, that’s from Marksell?” It was only after I had said this that I realised I was way too loud. “I’m…I’m gonna have to gesh you to shine here pleashe, jusht at the x.”

The last thing a man needs to do to a woman who is looking at him the way I was being looked at at that moment is to make a move of any kind toward her, but the little head was in control
– fuelled by the very cause of the distasteful condition.

“Lovely! That’s for Lightning. Now, if you could jusht write your phone number underneath it for me I’ll be off and I’ll give you a bell later.”

“Excuse me?”

“Your phone number pleashe, anywhere at all, for me.”

“Why do you want my phone number?”

“Sho I can ring and ask you out.”

“Oh. Why don’t you just ask me out here and now?”

“Okay. Would you like to accompany me for a drink some evening this week?”

“I don’t think so. Not looking at the state of you now!”

Shite! I thought. I fucked up my chances of being with this girl. “I know, I know, I’m not shipshape to be working today. We were at the funeral of a friend of ours and they rang lookin’ for someone an’…an’…”

“You’re not in any condition to drive!”

“It’s Okay…I got my drink-driving licence last month. Please go out with me!”

“I’m afraid not. Please leave and for God’s sake be careful. Does your office know that you have been drinking?”

“No. please don’t tell them. I’m Four Sean, by the way. If you ever want to see me, or to have me in particular do a job you could ask the base and-”

“Don’t hold your breath, Sean. Now, I have to answer that phone. So if you don’t mind…”

“Okay. Sorry for being blown away by your beauty. Bye.” Head down and heavy footed, I drearily dragged my dejected carcass out of the building and flumped onto the top of the four steps leading up to the front door, as if forced to sit down under the weight of the day’s tribulations. Tribulations that were, as always, magnified by the alcohol that I had consumed. I really wanted to just slink off home instead of turning my radio back on.