Nowhere to Hide

Wearing high heels can be difficult.Stepping through the brittle winter sunlight as a tall white woman, I can't help but stand out. The terraces are full of muffled cappuccino drinkers eyeing each other up, and I bury deeper into my cream granny crocheted scarf. I sit down nervously, aware that these eyes are critical not appraising, and take my coat off in my confusion. It takes a full seven minutes before I realise that I should put it back on.

I don't want to go to Apolo. Along with the memories the name brings to me like a tide of knotted seaweed, I cannot feel easy today. Something is escaping my pores and I know I should be on fire. I am conspicuous by my omission from this world. I sit in this city like a ladder in a hole, going up yet going nowhere, tall and plain, its purpose uncertain. On the metro they stare at this gothic girl in her black and navy clothes, hidden behind swathes of cloth, head covered by a cream scarf. I finger nervously at the edges, pulling it up and over my nose, my black-blue eyes filled with adrenaline. Don't look at me.

Flash flash flash. I can't see who is taking the photos but the sudden white contrasts starkly against the sedate trendy colours of the people on this scene. I can see their nostrils gleaming, sweat lying in wait on their foreheads, ready to land on some unsuspecting fellow-reveller. This is an addiction, a spiral of colour waiting to happen in a city of fashion, where what you wear is more of an indicator of your personality than who you are. The lights change, the videos change, the music stays the same. The groups leave, the friends move on, and I am left in the bar, behind. With the other untrendies. Something fizzles in the air. A nondescript band take to the stage. And suddenly we all stop talking.

Seven people on stage. A blonde girl seems to be singing backing vocals but we cannot hear her. We can however see her dance and gyrate on stage, throwing herself on the ground before jumping to her feet again and spinning around the drummer. The singer looks like he should be an illustrator, but his voice has the timbre of the soft morning light. The songs change and revolve, now circus, now rock, now ballads, now something else. There is no noise. The empty bar contains a few bodies dancing in their own circles, weaving their own stages. The drummer grins and plays in melodious fury, his teeth gleaming white beneath the weak lights. I can see the sweat spray with every hard roll he makes. I am in love. I need this drummer.

Angel, I don't care it costs 40euros to get you here each time. We need you. We will figure it out.

P.S. For the record, I don't mean I am in love with this guy physically.

No Turning

As we cross the crest of the hill, the side of the old Jail choked with dead ivy greeted us, the air dead and old and damp in our nostrils. The tower of an old cathedral lies silhouetted against the sky on the way down to the river valley, and shafts of yellow dusky light break through the gloaming. We entered silently through the front gate, the echoes of forgotten hooves in our minds and our blood hot and violent with the memories of injustices. The courtyard too was empty and the Jail stood like a cruel castle stretching across our eye line on its plateau above. I could see crows on the surrounding trees, but the flap of their wings made no sound against the dead air. The hollows on the open ground smelled of blood and countless dead no doubt buried beneath.

We climbed the steps up to the main building and eyed the open door with suspicion. We were not going in. A figure stood within the doorway, beckoning, but upon closer inspection faded into a table and leaflet stand. We declined to enter, instead turning to our left and circling like an animal stalking its prey. The crisscrossed barricades were not that old, the Jail was not closed long enough. An old telephone box lay on its side as though shot by a sniper, the flat leaves of the weeds converting it into some sort of tragic hero's grave. The buildings at the back were all open. Not like normal. Old peeling doorways framed by decaying paraphernalia such as splintered damp baby's cots and torturous looking wheelchairs, their rusting skeletons reminding us again of the relative recentness of use.

The final building was composed of tiny cells, the bars on the windows thick and grmiacing like mouths full of bared teeth. Holes in the wall provided little reprieve for the complete absence of light. Yet still something made our hair stand on end and gripped our stomachs unrelentingly. Something raised our blood in defiance and gave us the strength to walk to the pit of this crime against our heritage and our people. We found an old piano stripped naked in the last room and turned to face each other, aware of all the souls screaming at us. Suddenly, an organ sounded terrifying chords, and we were rooted to the spot. It sounded as though it came from right next to us, from this time. When the choir started I don't know if we were more relieved or disappointed that it was the New Year's Day concert in rehearsal.

Walking down the hill again towards the docks we passed a huge house with a strange sign in the driveway: "No Turning". We walked on, but after a few minutes we were obliged to give in. We returned to the driveway and spent a good ten minutes performing jerking 3-point-turns and spinning until we were filled with laughter and had shaken off the chills of Cork Jail.