Gurriers (8 page)

I could really feel my eyes water as I smiled at him. He had actually hit the nail right bang on the head, although I hadn’t realised it until he mentioned it. I was here because I wanted to get away from my previous life, which was nothing but unbearable heartache to me now. I felt like bursting into tears on the spot. Vinno picked up on my pain. His voice was gentle and genuine as he continued.

“Well, don’t worry abou’ i’. Ye’ve a lo’ of learnin’ to do an’ when it’s busy ye don’t ge’ a second to yerself, so ye won’t be gettin’ too much time to brood. The bitch’ll be ou’ of yer system in no time. D’ye know the city well?”

“Er, well enough.” This was the standard answer that I gave.

“Where’s Herbert Street’?”

“Er, um,” I’d never heard of Herbert Street.

“Have ye go’ a map?”

“Not yet.”

“The sooner ye ge’ one the better. Fatso there,” he said, jerking a thumb in the direction of the hatch, “fuckin’ hates being hassled for directions.”

“Yeah, he said so himself.”

“The way i’ goes in courier companies is that the base controller has power. He decides how much work gets despatched to you, where you go and with how many on board. He’s under pressure to ge’ the work done an’ he wants i’ done withou’ any
hassles, fuck-ups or messin’. He doesn’t have to like ye for you to make a decent wage but he needs to be able to forge’ abou’ any work he despatches to you. The more things don’t go wrong the more he’ll start loadin’ you up. You’ll prob’ly make fuck all for a few weeks bu’ keep pluggin’ away a’ i’ an’ he’ll start givin’ ye more an’ more an’ ye’ll no’ice yer wages improvin’. Look on i’ like an apprenticeship an’ ye’ll be alrie. You fuck up, act the bollix or wreck his head an’ ye’ll never make a decent wage. Get yerself a map today. The Stree’finder is the best one, costs abou’ seven quid. We all call i’, The Bible.”

“Thanks, Vinno.”

“What’s yer name?”

“Sean Flanagan.”

“What’s yer number?”

“Four.”

“Is Barry gone?”

“I heard Fatso fire him.”

He grinned when I referred to Aidan as Fatso, just as he had. Well, why not?

If I was going to walk the walk I might as well talk the talk also. Something told me that I was going to get very good at throwing insults around in the next few weeks, as well as get to know Dublin well and drive my bike through traffic with the same expertise as I had seen couriers employ.

As the Gizzard ambled away from the hatch, still writing
in his signature book, I heard Aidan from the other side of the hatch for the first time call, “Four Sean.”

I was still as nervous as hell, but there was an air of enthusiasm around me as I picked up my signature book and approached the hatch ready to document my first work as a courier.

The first thing that struck me as I gazed through the hatch once more was how busy it was. My first impression of the base had been during the lunchtime lull in business. On average the company processed about one fifth of the amount of calls between one and two o’clock as in any other hour between nine and five. The company stayed open until half six, but the last
hour and a half was also quiet, with the priority being shared between getting the work done and trying to finish couriers somewhere close to where they live. I had been given the impression that this lunchtime lull was the norm, so things looked particularly hectic to me when I got to the hatch and witnessed the full afternoon fervour of the company. The phone rang constantly, ending up quite often with every line flashing on hold while Aidan or Frank investigated something. The radio never stopped, with couriers calling in to report pick-ups and drop offs every couple of seconds, always hopeful for more work – preferably handy for where they are or where they’re going. Then there were couriers having problems; looking for a contact name again, needing directions, broken down, a punctured tyre etc.

Then there was the work. Every couple of seconds another job to be despatched blipped on the computer screen to demand a share of Aidan’s already thinly spread attention. Sometimes this blip brought woe and despair of gargantuan proportions to Aidan, who regularly vented his frustration for all to hear.

“Ah, for fuck sake! Kilternan! Kil-fuckin’-ternan! What the fuck would anybody be sendin’ anything to that middle of fuckin’ nowhere kip on a fuckin’ bizzy afternoon for? They can fuck off with themselves, I don’t give a fuck. I mean, what the fuck is there in Kilternan to send anything to? Someone’s fuckin’ sheep? No way. No fuckin’ way! I’ve nobody for them.”

This torrent of disbelief was invariably directed across the table at Frank, who seemed well used to it and knew exactly how to handle it, nodding sympathetically, saying nothing and doing his damndest to hide his amusement at the outburst.

My second visit to the hatch was a real eye-opener for me about Aidan’s job. I spent a good three minutes watching him deal with: four different customer queries; two couriers who needed contact names; one courier who had a puncture (I got the impression that Aidan didn’t believe that one) and who needed to be met by another courier to have all of his work taken off him; one courier who had gone to the wrong office to pick up after mishearing Aidan despatch a call to him and was
now miles away from where he should have been and giving about ten different couriers a “Roger” as they reported their progress, telling them either to header on or stand by as they asked for more work.

He also despatched six different jobs as I watched on, becoming more impressed by the second. My second impression of Aidan, which was so much more admirable and positive than the first, was well in place by the time he got around to giving me some attention.

“Okay, Sean, ready to go?”

“Roger.” Delighted with myself that he noticed I had answered him in radio talk, I filled in the date at the top of my signature sheet.

He despatched two different jobs to me: one called a mini which was basically a job to be picked up in the city centre going to another office in the city centre that paid the basic “within two miles” rate which was £1.30 and a stretch mini which went a few miles further for which I got the rate for three miles at 60p each added on (even though the distance between pick up and drop off was only three miles, the customer was going to be charged for five).

The total value of the work despatched to me added up to £5.20. He told me to call him when I had picked the two of them up and I said “Roger” again.

I was determined to make a good first impression. I intended to follow his instructions to the letter and not to ask for any directions at all, although I only had a very rough idea of where Kilmainham was – the destination of my stretch mini.

“What did ye ge’?” enquired Vinno, as I picked my radio up off the table.

“Mount Street Crescent to Leeson Street and Baggot Street to Kilmainham.”

“Okay c’mere,” He got up and went to the map on the wall beside the hatch.

“Rie. You’re here. Go under the arch at the end of the lane an’ ye’re on Baggo’ Stree’, yeah? Cross Baggo’ Stree’ an’ go down
this small road strai’ in front of ye an’ that’ll bring ye down to Mount Stree’ Upper, yeah? Turn rie an’ ye’ll see a mad lookin’ buildin’ in front of ye.”

While he had been directing me on the map I had been struggling to get my radio on properly. I had seen the other couriers put their radios on in such a way that they seemed to just sit on their left shoulders with the speaker facing out and the call button perfectly accessible to the right hand. The others had done this so effortlessly that I hadn’t paid as much attention to the technique as I should have and was all over the place as a result.

“The strap goes under yer arm, bu’ noh over yer head. Pu’ the front of the strap behind yer neck wi’ the back of i’ an’ the two go over yer shoulder together.

There! That’s you sorted! Now, from Leeson Stree’ ye jus’ go strai’ along Cuffe Stree’, Kevin Stree’, the Coombe an’ then turn rie onte Meath Stree’. All the way up to the T then turn left onte Thomas Stree’. Strai’ on all the way onto James Stree’, past the hoppo an’ ye’re there! Take yer time an’ don’ panic, ye’ll be grand.”

“Thanks, Vinno.”

“No worries.”

The bag, unlike the radio holder, did go over my head and under my right arm, and it felt good that I at least mastered that myself – until Vinno pointed out that it was way too long and
adjusted the strap for me.

“It’s noh meant to cover yer arse – you want i’ so’s the bottom of it just sits on the seat of yer bike.”

“Thanks, Vinno,” I said, beginning to feel like a parrot.

“Off ye pop.”

And off I went, out making money on my motorbike.

This was such an adventure for me that I began to sing the Indiana Jones theme tune to myself, as I navigated my bike through the little gap in the gate, beginning my quest by seeking somewhere called the Pepper Cannister on Mount Street Crescent. The music lifted my spirits, the sense of adventure made me feel good, the anxiety made my nerves tingle.

The people I had encountered today intrigued me. I was still broken-hearted and miserable, but now I had a whole lot of other stuff going on also. Now that I was a courier, life was not as bad as it had been a few hours ago, before I joined this most interesting of occupations.

Down the end of Lad Lane as far as the archway? Grand! This is Baggot Street; I knew that already but just to be sure to hammer it into the memory. Small Street directly opposite -check! Mount Street Upper is at the end of that - no problem!

One step at a time Sean and we’ll have this sussed in no time, I thought.

Clear to cross Baggot Street and away down I went. I saw the sign for James’ Place East and memorised for future use.

So far so good, the buildings in front of me now are on Mount Street Upper according to Vinno, so upon turning right, I guessed I should see a big old church in the middle of the road - and there it was. The name Pepper Canister made a lot more sense to me upon seeing it. I drove up to and around it, as if it was a roundabout until I saw a statue of a girl swinging from a rope tied to the top of a pole like they used to in the old days and I knew I had arrived! There was a plaque on the wall and I deduced that this might hold the name of the building so I manoeuvred myself close enough to read it. The plaque read, “Pepper Canister House”.

“Eureka!” I shouted inside with delight. I had just found the
first location of my career as a courier. This job was going to be a doddle.

I parked my bike beside the main entrance to the building, deciding not to use my heavy duty chain and lock since I was not going to be too far away from the bike for too long, opting to just use my disc lock.

This is an ingenious little lock, which immobilises the bike by attaching onto the brake disc, making it impossible for the wheel to turn. The beauty of the lock is that it is small enough to fit in a jacket pocket, but its drawback is that it is easy to forget that the lock’s there, and attempting to drive off without removing it leads to an invariably disastrous effect. Most disc locks come with warning stickers that should be placed beside the ignition as a reminder to double check before pulling off.

Having secured the machine, I scaled the four steps leading to the main entrance and pulled the door open. There was immediate eye contact with the receptionist - a serious-looking schoolteacher type in her 50s who wore too much of the wrong type of make up.

Okay, Sean, helmet off and radio down, I reminded myself and then it hit me. When I reached my hand over to turn the radio down, I realised to my horror that I had failed to turn it on when I left the base. This could be disastrous. What if Aidan had been calling me?

Panic raged rampant as I frantically tried to work out my best course of action.

Should I call him to explain why he wouldn’t have been answered had he been calling me or just turn it on now and hope that he hadn’t?

The first thing to do, I decided, was to get it turned on anyway, but at low volume because I was in a reception. The faint beep was comforting as I clicked the dial clockwise a few degrees, but no other sound came from the radio. I turned the dial a few more degrees, anxiously hoping for some sort of aural activity. Nothing! I had been walking towards the reception whilst preoccupied with my radio and was almost at it with my helmet still on under a ferocious glare from the receptionist. I
quickly turned the dial a few more degrees before employing both hands in the process of removing the helmet.

I smiled at her as soon as the offending item had been taken off my head, but that had no effect on the intensity of the stare. I decided that my best option was to just get what I was here for and then sort out the radio outside. My voice sounded decidedly shaky as I spoke.

“I’m here to collect something going to-”

“Sorry, lads, on the phone there, loadsa yiz callin’. Eight Ray, you’re first –go ahead.” The eruption of Aidan’s voice at such high volume made both of us jump, with me instinctively grabbing at the source with both hands in a frantic attempt to reduce the volume, dropping my helmet in the process.

Dropping a helmet onto a hard surface is a particularly sickening experience for any biker. A wave of nausea washed over me as the click of me succeeding in turning off the radio was shortly followed by the awful sound of my precious Arai bouncing off the marble floor and then skittering the remaining few feet to the reception desk before coming to rest with a wooden thud.