Gurriers (85 page)

“I don’t know...”

“You never know what the consequences would be if this package didn’t get to them on time, maybe it has something to do with civil servants pay; possibly even your own wages.”

“You say that the package you’re carrying could have something to do with my wages?”

“It has something to do with their computer. Is your payslip printed on computer paper?”

“Well, now that you mention it-”

“Well, there’s a chance that this package could directly affect you!”

“But we can’t have you driving like that around these parts, hang on…Packie this is Michael, do ye copy?...I have a chap with me here, Packie, on a mohorbike in a big hurry to get to the Council offices wih a package all the way from Dublin... Roger, yeah, he’s one a dem courier fellas, will ya give him an escort in that far to stop him from killin’ himself or someone else drivin’ like a madman...? He’ll be leavin’ me now, black bike, black helmet, black jacket, has a radio on his shoulder and a box on the back seat of the bike...black. All right, youngfella, about half a mile up the road on the left there’s a billboard with a Garda car behind it. He’ll be lookin’ out for ye and he’ll pull out in front of ye and give ye an escort to where you’re goin’. Follow him an’ he’ll get ye there on time. Just remember for the future that no package you’ll ever have to deliver will be worth killin’ yourself for. Good luck to ye.”

“Yes gard. Thank you very much.”

“And you’d better slow the fuck down as soon as that’s delivered! I’ll still be here when you’re going back and if you’re even slightly over the speed limit that bike’ll be taken off ye!”

“Yes gard.” And off I went, duly chastised and feeling bloody lucky not to have had my bike taken off me. I got the receptionist to sign the time in my book for me when I dropped off: 16.44.

I wasn’t so smooth and calm early November on Herbert Place though, and rightly so!

It had been a quiet and dreary dull day, less than two weeks since the clocks had been put forward - heralding the start of darkness’s invasion into our working day, the sort of day when a courier really felt that early winter depression. I had had a
pretty poor day in terms of earnings, but had met someone buzzy every time I had to stand by, making the day a very sociable one and also a very stoned one.

I left the base at half four to collect two jobs to get me pointing home, having just smoked a powerful joint with Eighteen Gerry. Unfortunately for me, we were the only two stoners in the base at the time and ended up smoking the whole joint between the two of us. I was well and truly stoned!

My first pick-up was in Pepper Cannister House and the second one around the corner on Herbert Place. Pepper Cannister was waiting in the out tray for me which was great; the less contact I had to have with receptionists in the state I was in, the better!

I came out of the Pepper Cannister, got on my bike and then had to get off it again to take my signature book out of the top box to remind me what number I was collecting my next pickup from. Brand and Whitely 14, Herbert Place for Imprint in Mount Pleasant was my next job.

The lights at Percy Bridge had just gone orange, so I nailed it and swung right just as they went red, slowing down immediately to scrutinise the door numbers of this Georgian terrace on my right. At least I didn’t have house numbers to check on my left since I was driving up the canal. Because of the rather large front gardens of this particular terrace combined with the dim light of dusk, reading the numbers was no mean feat and I had to squint and stare hard to make out even the bigger numbers on the doors. When I saw my destination I looked for oncoming traffic and then swung right. I know that I looked for on-coming traffic before moving right because that’s what I always do. However, Somehow, I didn’t see a vehicle that happened to be moving the opposite direction that was nearly on top of me when I moved across his path. He was, of course, a porno faggot on an ST1100 and he had to take severe evasive action not to hit the gobshite that had just pulled across in front of him. I helped a little once I copped on, giving the throttle an extra blip while straightening the angle of my machine - effectively giving
him a smaller target to miss. This he did - barely.

I dismounted slowly, full of dread and knowing that I was in trouble, as I heard him screech to a halt behind me a couple of buildings down the terrace. I opened my helmet strap but didn’t fully remove the helmet, just shoved it up to balance on my head, and not as high as normal either - conscious that my tell tale eyes needed to be shaded as much as possible if I was to have any chance of avoiding severe punishment.

“What the fuck was that?” he barked.

“Sorry, gard, I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“Thinking? There was no fucking thinking there, boy! Look at this bike, this big white bike with all the high vis bits on it that is designed to be extra visible. How the fuck does someone a few feet away not see something designed to be seen so easily coming the other way?”

This straight forward question required an answer and quick before he would realise that I was stoned.

“I was looking too hard at door numbers, gard. I am just as angry with myself as you are with me. I’m not going to be around too long if I make mistakes like that. Maybe this job is just too dangerous.”

In this instance it bode well for me that this gard was young. Normally the lesser experienced Gardaí are more likely to prosecute, but this one had had the shite scared out of him and was in for the post-adrenalin feeling of well being as soon as his anger had dissipated sufficiently. A more experienced garda would have been better able for this and less likely to change his demeanour. This change didn’t take too long, aided as it was by the expression of my own disappointment with myself and doubts about the job. I could actually hear his tone soften in the course of his next sentence.

“You have to be aware of the traffic at all times as a motorist and even more so when you’re driving full time.”

“Yes gard.”

“You should learn your lesson from this escape and have more cop on to what’s going on around you.”

“Yes gard.”

“You’re lucky that you pulled across the path of a trained driver and not some eejit that wouldn’t react as well.”

“Yes gard.”

“Okay, we’ll leave it at that. Be safe!”

“Yes, gard, thank you, gard.”

I did well not to get smashed up or prosecuted for that example of careless driving, not to mention getting away with being so stoned as I went about my job. I did feel as bad with myself as expressed to the garda and he was right when he said that a lot of drivers might not have avoided hitting me. I felt very lucky all round as I plodded into the offices of Brand and Whitely to collect for Imprint, so lucky that after that day I never got stoned at work again.

Gardai almost never pull over couriers for no reason, though you’d think this was a common occurrence to listen to some couriers complain about them. I took little notice of the stories of how gards mistreated some of my compatriots, convinced that the individuals involved must have done something un-disclosed in their rendition to attract this unwanted attention. That was until it happened to me.

I did have plenty of negative episodes with Gardaí but once and only once, I was picked on by two of them for no reason at all. I was bullied and in a particularly sickening manner.

It was about 1 pm and I was heading into town along Grand Canal Street, moving along the outside of some slow moving traffic, when I saw the Garda car a couple of cars ahead of me nearing the junction of Barrow Street. There was something about it that aroused my suspicion and I decided to turn right if the car went straight and go straight if the car turned right -either way being good for my next destination on Pearse Street. The gards went past the turn, so I flicked on my right indicator and veered towards Barrow Street.

All of a sudden the car swerved right without indicating, swinging onto Barrow Street ahead of me before I had completed my turn. I was well and truly wary of them now and rightly so. The only possible explanation for the manner in which they
were driving was that they were watching me and had only decided to go down Barrow Street after seeing my indicator. The speed limit on Barrow Street is 30 mph, so I knew that I dare not go above that or they would surely pounce.

There was no oncoming traffic to start off with, so they drove along at the speed limit with me obediently following suit behind them. Then we came to a couple of cars coming the other way and I was horrified to realise that they slowed down to an agonising 20 mph. I slowed down also, immediately aware of their game. Had I overtaken them with traffic moving the other way it could be classed as dangerous overtaking - a prosecutable offence. As soon as there was no traffic coming the other way they sped up to the speed limit again, meaning that I would be done for speeding had I overtaken them. We continued the length of Barrow Street in this manner, with them torturing me with slow speeds on three different occasions as we came across clusters of opposing traffic. I was getting more frustrated by the second. I wondered why they were doing this to me.

When we got to the bottom there was a car indicating to go right, waiting for a gap in the traffic bound for Ringsend (there are traffic lights at this junction now, but there wasn’t then) and they were going left. Since the road was less than two lanes wide at this stage they were stuck behind the other car, leaving a gap easily big enough for a bike to get through. I saw this as my opportunity to get away from the bastards, moved through the gap - indicating left, of course - and made the left turn.

Suddenly the sirens were on and they were up on the path to get past the other car while making the turn and after me. I considered taking the chase and maybe I should have, but I stopped for them. There were two of them - a tall thin bastard and a short fat bitch - and they got great pleasure out of their competition to see who could be the nastier shithead to an innocent working man. I am giving myself full credit for my composure because never in my life have I wanted to punch someone in the nose and kick someone else in the fanny so much. I managed to find myself a mantra and say it over and over again until they were tired of flinging abuse at me. Maybe they wanted me to
snap and turn violent. Maybe they thought that I was a scumbag and could be pushed that far and were disappointed to find that I couldn’t be.

“We should take that bike off you for such dangerous driving,” said the long bastard.

“That back tyre looks bald to me!” the fat bitch contributed to this horrible harassment.

“I’m just doing my job, I don’t deserve this.”

“Do you think you’re smart or something?” He was now leering over me menacingly.

“Do you want to walk home, or maybe get arrested and be brought to the station?” She managed to convey menace by waddling close to my other side.

“I’m just doing my job, I don’t deserve this.”

“You deserve whatever we say you deserve,” The tall bastard was getting irritated.

“Let’s arrest this fucker and worry about the charges later,” Fatso sneered.

“Did you just assault my colleague? I would have no problem standing up in court and saying that you did!” The threat sounded very real the way he put it.

“I’m just doing my job, I don’t deserve this.”

“We can put you in real big trouble, mister,” she endorsed his threat.

“I’m just doing my job, I don’t deserve this.”

“You will be getting a summons in the post.” I was actually glad to hear him say this, despite the fact that it meant that I was going to be prosecuted, because it meant that this horrible ordeal was coming to an end.

“We’re going to have you in front of a judge on as many charges as we can throw at you.”

I didn’t answer her this time, I was just glad that they appeared to be about to leave me alone. Then they got into their car and left me there, feeling utterly sickened at the way I had been abused for no reason whatsoever. Shaking, I fished for my
cigarettes and lighter from my inside pocket.

“Four Sean.”

“Go ahead, Sean.”

“I’ve been delayed by two horrible bastard pigs that did a proper nasty job on me.”

“Where are you now?”

“Barrow Street heading for Pearse.”

“No bother, call me when you’re free in two.”

I lit my cigarette and leaned back on my bike to pull myself together after the ordeal, an ordeal that will be with me for a very long time to come.

The summons came with the male gard’s name on it, so he was the one who was in the courtroom three weeks later pressing the charges of dangerous overtaking and driving without due care and consideration. I don’t remember his name and even if I did I wouldn’t use it here. For the rest of this episode I will give him a name. I’m going to call him Prickface McWanker.

I spotted him outside the courtroom, looking all relaxed and jovial as he joked with some other Gardai prior to the opening of the court. They all had folders in their hands, no doubt containing the details and documents pertaining to their respective cases. He must have assumed that just because his victim had said very little during the despicable bullying episode on Barrow Street that he would have an easy time of it in court. He didn’t even recognise me in my suit.