Chapter 8

It was 1987.

That morning, he took the 67A bus from Maynooth. Alighting on Eden Quay, he made his way up toward St. Stephen’s Green by way of Dame Street and Grafton Street.

Town was not busy.

Rush hour had not yet arrived, and those in their black suits and ties had yet to leave their houses and go to work for the day.

Sorry souls.

Sad souls.

Bicycles passed him by: their wheels rolling water into the air. Splish. Splash. Water rising up only to fall again.

As life.

On the way he had fed and watered himself sufficiently, knowing that when he arrived provisions would be in limited supply.

It was going to be one long siege.

There would be no beautiful descriptions.

None at all.

There was just no time. It was just going to be about the facts. He was certain of that much. His task was to dramatise and make coherent the narrative (if one would call it that) of the man who called himself the Last Dubliner.

He was a notorious man.

Holed up in a hole.

On the top floor.

He did not know if there were others left who still referred to him by that nomenclature. It was, he thought, a rather fatuous term, but because he was being paid, he did not care very much for the title, or for the individual that his story would narrate.

Little did he know.

Bollox, he said, as he stepped out of the rain, and up on to the second floor of a block of second rate apartments, noticing that his left shoe was taking in water.

How can anyone live here?

A fucking shithole.

He was on York Street, looking out over the balcony of a dirty brown bricked building.

Below, he saw children, poor children: children that would not make it pass the age of 10.

Their mothers nowhere to be seen.

Heroin has destroyed this place, he thought.

The man who greeted him, at the door, the same man who had buzzed him up only moments earlier, returned slowly to his easy chair, gesturing for him to follow him.

He was old.

Much old than he had imagined. In fact, when he had answered the ad for a literary sectary, he really did not think much about the age of the man. It was a queer proposition.

His voice on the telephone did not reveal much.

It gave nothing away.

But now when he looked at him he felt sad. Sad for everything. A paltry old man that no one gave a shit about.

Not even him.

—Good evening.

—It’s morning.

—I don’t care what it is. It’s the same for me.

All the blinds in the room were closed. By the window on the left hand side of the room, stood a desk.

Suppose that’s mine.

—Is that were I?

—It is. I will sit here. And you will sit there.

—You want this done in a week?

—Yes.

—It’s not very long.

—You will sleep and eat here. You will shit here.

He accent irritated him. It was so thick, guttural.

My name is Seamus. Seamus Byrne.

I said I knew.

—Aren’t you the clever cat? But that is not what they call me. Or rather what they used to call me. The called me the Mac the Knife. I was a good lad. With a knife, I mean.

He turned to the wizened face of the old man and looked long and him.

It said nothing to him.

Nothing all.

There were no words for it, none came to him. But this was strange. Usually, he was full of words. He could forever. At least that is what he thought.

So full.

—I know. You said so in you letters. Your name is Seamus. Seamus Byrne. The last Dubliner. I am here to write your story. To document on paper all the exploits of your life. To tell the world about your children, about your wife’s.

—It was the cradle of civilization.

—What was?

—Dublin.

He did reply.

—A fertile crescent for humanity to show itself as it truly is.

—As a violent and bloodthirsty chaos?

—Exactly. I was a part of it. I was there. I was it.

He did not entirely agree. But he was getting paid. A week’s work for a week’s pay. What did he care?

But was he the Last Dubliner? And what did last mean in this case? If he was the last who was the first? It sounded like nonsense.

He looked at him.

—Do you know how many people applied for this position?

—No.

—No one.

—I applied.

—I mean apart from you. Apart from your application.

—So.

—You are one of a kind.

Indeed.

Seamus. He said it. In his head. Seamus. He had a strange face. Strange. Strange in the way that it was not marked. That it bore no trace of who he said he was. Could he be. Maybe. Hard to tell.

—You need to start.

—How?

—Sit over there. Get you pen and paper ready.

He shuffled about. Watch him.

—I will dictate to you. You will write it down. You will put my words on your paper. You will say it, as I say it. Then we will read it.

He sat down.

This was all very strange. But how could he not accept. Money was money.

Life, at least, had thought him that.

It hadn’t.

The young man sat down, on the soft brown chair, readied his pen and paper, placed his elbow on the wooden table, stilled his shaking hand, and listened.

Listen to me now.

—Let me begin.

It was autumn.