One minute, they’re dancing side by side—the pixie-cut girl in her vintage threads and the greasy-looking auld fella. Next thing, his hand’s up her skirt. She yells, “Woah!” and jerks back like she’s touched a live wire. Spinning around, she looks ready to tear strips off him, but the dirtbird’s already turned away, sly grin plastered across his shiny mug.
She freezes, second-guessing herself, then scans the crowd for her pal. There she is—blonde, bare shoulders, bouncing to The Chemical Brothers under the strobes, oblivious to the bother.
The pixie-cut girl makes for her, the dirtbird right on her tail, shoving through the crush. She knows he’s there but can’t move fast enough, wading through bodies like music festival mud.
I’m across the room, telling myself it’s none of my business. Lockdown’s just ended, and the city’s gone feral—pubs like this northside dive, El Vino, are keeping afloat by letting anything go: bingeing, drugging, fighting… and what’s happening now. The Guards don’t care, and neither should I.
But then her eyes meet mine, wide with desperation. Hits me like a gut punch.
Feck it.
I shove off the sticky wall, adrenaline firing through me. Weaving through the crowd, I size up the dirtbird. Mid-thirties, squat but built—yard muscles from Arbor Hill, I’m guessing, the perv’s prison up the road.
The floor’s chaos, the music morphing into some trippy nightmare—a pounding beat, distorted guitars… and seagull screeches? Bodies block the way on all sides as I push through, and then, bang, I’m in his face. He stares me down, chest puffed. “What do you want?” he goes. But I’m not here for a friendly chinwag. I jab him hard, fingers digging through the fat to reach his breastbone. He stumbles back, shocked, leaving just enough room to clock him square on the nose. His head snaps back in time to the beat, hands flying to check for blood—typical cardboard hardman. A right hook to the temple folds him like a plastic pint.
Drinks spill; moaning starts. Fair enough, you don’t mess with other people’s booze in Dublin City. I throw my hands up in apology, he crawls toward a table leg. The noise draws the bouncer; a mountain of a man with an afro that adds an extra foot. Working solo in a dive like this is asking for trouble, but he scans the scene like a pro, weighing up who’s to blame.
I try my buddy Eamo’s trick, smiling and sticking out a hand, “Sorry about him.” But the bouncer isn’t buying it.
The pixie-haired girl pops up then. “That guy stuck his hand up my skirt,” she says, pointing at the dirtbird. She nods at me. “And he was only helping me out.”
The bouncer recalibrates. He drags the dirtbird out past the cracked red booths, through the side door.
I’m off the hook. Thank feck for that.
We watch them go. Outside, hipsters puff away under the canopy like it’s going out of fashion — which it is. The dirtbird, released, barrels back, shouting and flapping his tongue at us through the big bay window, forcing the bouncer to grab him again, and steer him up the street like a long-suffering wife hauling home a drunken husband.
Up close, she looks older than me, but age doesn’t matter—dealing with guys like that would rattle anyone.
“You alright?” I ask.
“Yes,” she says. Her thrift-shop style and southside-by-the-sea accent scream minted parents—not that I’m judging, we’re simply from different worlds. “Thanks for that,” she adds. “I owe you one.”
“Ah, it was nothing,” I say, meaning it. A shop mannequin would’ve put up more of a fight.
“I’m Ann,” she says. “What’s your name?”
I give her a fake one.
I ask if she’s going to report him. Her grin tells me no. “Instant karma got him instead,” she says.
Good, I think. Last thing I need is The Guards sniffing around tonight.
Ann heads back to her pal, and I make for Eamo, who’s just out of the jacks. His leather jacket’s still two sizes too big, courtesy of the white-van man from our estate.
“What was all that about?” he asks.
“Had to give a dirtbird a dig,” I tell him.
“You had to, did you?” he says, scanning for the bouncer. “For feck’s sake, we don’t need that hassle.”
He’s not wrong. Scraps in Dublin bars don’t always end so neat.
“Relax,” I say.
But he can’t. He says, “Them bouncers can do what they like, the feckers.” He stares off into the middle distance, like some lad from the films having a Vietnam flashback. He’s still shook from a few months ago, when a doorman dragged him down a lane off Harcourt Street and gave him a good hiding. He said two Guards drove past and waved.
“‘Cause if the bouncer does come over here, we’ll just get on our toes,” Eamo says. “I’m not hanging around for The Guards. I always end up in the cell with the horse blanket.”
He’s always going on about that cell with the horse blanket. We were stuck together in Oberstown detention centre when we were nippers, and he was even telling me about it back then—itchy as feck, apparently.
Two lads sidle over. One’s taller than me, with a Celtic Cross tattoo on his neck. The other’s shorter, with a bumfluff beard and denim jacket rolled to the elbows like he’s ready for a scrap in 1950. They’re in my face, reeking of weed—not surprising since the smell’s everywhere in the city now, drowning out the hops from the Guinness Brewery.
Celtic Cross says, “Here, you owe us a drink.”
“Me?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he goes. “Our pints got knocked over by you and your pal.”
As if the dirtbird was my best mate.
Bumfluff crosses his bare arms, sizing me up like a problem to sort. They look older and mean business. Where I’m from, you learn quickly the kind of people to steer clear of, and these lads don’t make the cut.
“Wasn’t my fault,” I say.
Celtic Cross leans in, snorting. “Then whose fault was it?”
“The other fella’s,” I tell him. “He’s probably just round the corner. Might catch him if you get a wriggle on.”
He forces out a laugh—babies come out easier—but doesn’t swing for me. I’d respect him more if he had.
Bumfluff tries to back him up, but it’s limp. “Are you getting smart?” he goes.
I’m about to ask if he needs me to dumb it down, but Eamo jumps in, all charm. “Howya there, sorry about him,” he says, sticking out his hand.
To my surprise, they actually shake it, taking turns like eejits. I want to laugh—but it sticks in my throat.
“My mate here’s just obsessed with nonces,” Eamo says, grinning.
My jaw clenches. “Not obsessed,” I say.
Eamo laughs, and the two join in. My blood’s bubbling… when there’s a tap on my shoulder.
It’s Ann, smiling up at me, with her blond mate behind waving. I nod, playing it cool, like this happens all the time—two good-looking girls smiling my way.
“Can I buy you a drink to say thanks?” she asks.
That throws the lads. Celtic Cross raises an eyebrow. “Why, what happened you?”
She fills in the story—no hesitation, no shame.
Celtic Cross drops the hardman act, clapping me on the shoulder. “Fair play to you.”
Ann looks back at me. “What are you drinking, so? A pint?”
A tug at my sleeve. Eamo whispers, “Say no.” Like a kid not wanting to share his mammy. Pandemic closures kept us from city pubs, so they’re new territory for us. Eamo thinks we’d do better to stay in the background, saying nothing. I reckon it makes us stand out more.
Still, I try shrugging Ann off to keep the peace. “Ah, you don’t have to.”
“Don’t insult me now,” she insists.
“Alright, grand,” I say, eyeing the bar taps, lost on the labels. “I’ll have, eh, a Rockshore.”
Her face twists like I’ve offended her worse than the dirtbird did. “A Rockshore? Are you sure?”
No, I’m not, but I nod, trying to look unbothered, and failing.
She heads to the bar, and I turn to Eamo, with a scowl that would curdle milk. “I’m taking the drink,” I say. “We should act natural.”
He pretends not to care, loudly sniffing up snots—the giveaway he’s pissed off. He’ll get over it. Blending in’s the right call.
Ann brings the drink, then her mate drags her to the floor, Celtic Cross and Bumfluff trailing like dogs sniffing scraps.
I nudge Eamo. We watch, standing on the edge of the dancefloor, not dancing. The song has some lad going on about his girl holding hands with Trevor. The crowd belts out every word, though it’s new to me.
The boyos close in on Ann and her mate. Eamo glances over, his mood shifting to business. “Time to move,” he says.
I nod. He weaves toward the bar, bumping into people like a drunk fool, covering his intentions. I stay, heart thumping, scoping for targets.
A loud voice nearby grabs my attention, distracting me from my duty. “Had an idea during Covid: a relationship park. Meet your dream partner outdoors. Not a knocking shop, mind—it’s only for those ready to settle down.”
Turning, I spot a chubby auld lad with peroxide blonde hair under an Aussie cork hat. Hard to tell if he’s in a drinks promo, or doesn’t give a shite about his appearance.
Eamo returns, grinning. “Would you look at Brim Shady!”
“Who?” I ask.
“The owner. Rory. Out of his office and off his head.”
I’ve seen the ‘office’—it’s bolted to the wall at the far end of the bar, where he’s chopped the back off a truck cab that ploughed into the place. Rory’s always perched behind the windscreen, eating, drinking, or doing paperwork. That’s how he clocked Eamo working the place the first time. Now Rory has a split.
He spots Eamo, waddles over, and starts chatting. Or rambling on. “I’m worried about cocaine,” he says, nodding at the crowd. “Might replace beer soon. There’ll be no need for tables or chairs here in El Vino—just rows of bathroom cubicles for snorting.”
I laugh. “Change the name to ‘The Powder Room,’ yeah?”
“Fecking great idea!” Rory beams, corks bouncing on his hat like he’s cracked the future of nightlife. “What’s your name?”
“Ian,” I say.
He shakes my hand. “Rory.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“Charming,” he smirks, then whips out a joint, rolled in thick brown Rizla papers. “Eco-friendly—ready to save the rainforests?”
We don’t have to be asked twice.
Outside, Rory leans against the wall, sparking up. “This street used to be famous for ladies of the night,” he says, like he’s giving a history tour. “Now you just ring up instead. Progress.”
Eamo chuckles. “When you owned it, yeah?”
Rory waves him off, laughing. “Christ, no! Would’ve been shut down long ago. Just imagining the old days. But here’s the trick—get the women in, and the men’ll follow.”
“So you’re after fellas, then?” Eamo smirks.
Rory winks. “Men drink three times as much. Women are catching up, though. Lockdown turned loads of them into full-blown alcoholics. Great for business.”
We puff puff pass. The joint hits just right. I glance in at the bar, where the crowd’s wrecking it to the beat. Rory keeps talking, but I’m already halfway back inside in my head, letting the bass drown him out.
He jerks a thumb toward the brickwork. “This place has been a pub for 800 years. Served the English when they first landed to sack the country—thirsty work, I suppose.” Standing straighter, he adds, “But that’s their business. Me? I don’t ask questions. My staff don’t either—hear no evil, see no evil, that’s the way to do it.”
Taking a final drag, he flicks the joint into the shore, ignoring the bin beside him. “Now, isn’t it time you got back to work?”
We slip inside, Eamo whispering, “Lunatic, isn’t he?”
I smile. No argument here.
Back in the crowd, Celtic Cross sidles up, calling me brave for taking down the dirtbird. He doesn’t get it. I didn’t choose to be in the wrong place at the right time—I just reacted. But explaining that’s pointless. He’s too busy telling me how he’d have loved to have taken a crack himself.
I nod and say nothing.
He drifts over to Ann, whispering sweet nothings in her ear instead. Her laughter cuts through the noise, enough to egg him on. He leans in and kisses her. Jesus, I’m thinking, she’s having no luck with fellas tonight. But she kisses him back, and soon they’re wearing the faces off each other. Maybe it’s restoring her faith in blokes. Or maybe it’s just another messy night in the post-lockdown blur.
The weed drags me into a memory of mam, tears streaming down her face that night. She’d always come home smiling, but not that time. I kept at her until she told me. Some animal had taken more from her than any thief ever could. She eventually came back to herself. But I never did. I try shoving the thought aside—it’s killing my buzz—but it clings, heavy and raw. I’ll never understand how anyone could do that to another person. Until I do, this need for payback will stay caged up inside, ready to escape whenever I’m triggered.
Celtic Cross and Ann break apart. He’s swaying with her to some house tune, loose and easy. Now, to me, that’s bravery—moving to whatever beat’s playing, not caring who’s watching. Not like the double-hard bastards from my estate, waiting all night for their favourite rave banger, and then popping a vein with some mad-man dance routine.
Someday, maybe I’ll be that relaxed on a dancefloor. But not tonight.
I head toward the jacks, hands quick and light, dipping into back pockets as I go. By the time I reach the door, I’ve scooped a decent haul of phones. I glance back and give the signal.
Eamo clocks me, abandons his drink, and meets me at the side door. He slips the phones into his oversized jacket, added to the ones he nicked.
Benburb Street’s empty, save for the odd Luas tram zipping by. Heads down, we move fast. No need for words. There’ll be plenty of time to talk when we’re clear.
Halfway up the road, I spot him—the dirtbird. This time, he’s got three blokes with him.
Eamo leans in, eyes narrowing. “Here, is that yer man?”
“What’s he gonna do?” I ask. “Molest us?”
“I wouldn’t put it past him. How’d he gather that lot so quick?”
“A group chat for gropers?” I guess.
“This is not good,” Eamo mutters.
“Relax,” I tell him, though I can’t shake the thought—these lads are tight if he raised them so fast. Probably prison buddies. Ready to throw down for him? They’d better be.
“Ian, seriously,” Eamo is saying, “we don’t want things kicking off with all these phones on us. There’s a fence waiting to take them off us.”
I say nothing. A tram rumbles towards us. Eamo adds, “C’mon, when it passes, we’ll slip toward the quays.”
“I’m not running,” I tell him. “We’ve done nothing wrong.”
“Eh, by the laws of the land, we have,” he goes.
Scarpering’s just not my style. “I don’t run from nonces,” I say.
Eamo groans. “Great. Now you’ve got a ‘no running from nonces’ rule. It’s not running—it’s slipping away. If that lot does us over, we lose everything.”
“They won’t take a fecking thing,” I say.
“Aw, shite,” says Eamo.
The Luas glides past. Eamo and I on one side, the dirtbird and pals on the other. No words are needed. The dirtbird’s glare says it all: You came for me, now I’m coming for you.
Bring it on.
I meet them in the middle of the street, throwing jabs and hooks. Two go down, including the dirtbird. I glance at Eamo, but he’s getting pummeled, arms low to protect the fecking phones, rather than his face. Before I can help, the dirtbird’s back up, slamming an elbow into my head. I hit the tram tracks hard.
With that, he’s on me, sitting astride my chest, pinning me, fists raining down. A boot connects with my side, knocking the wind out of me.
“Think you’re a hero now?” someone above sneers. “You little scumbag!”
I don’t beg. Pleading only adds to the humiliation. I stay silent, grunting through the blows. Sirens wail in the distance, but they’re not coming for me. Soon, I won’t hear anything at all.
Then comes a racket close up. The battering stops. The groper and his gang glance around. I twist to see Ann and her mate shouting at them to feck off.
Thanks be to Jaysus!
When the kicks and punches start again, the girls swing their bags, shoving the dirtbird off me in the chaos. I scramble up as the others leg it. Now it’s him on the ground, the dirtbird. One swift Air Max to the head puts him flat, and three jabs keep him there.
Eamo’s ten feet up the road, pulling himself together. The lad beating him is long gone. Celtic Cross and Denim Jacket appear behind Ann, looking furious.
As they should, ‘cause they were two of my victims.
“Thanks, now I owe you one,” I tell Ann, forcing a breezy tone. “And I’ll make sure it’s not a Rockshore.”
Before she can reply, I jog to Eamo.
“Wait! Our phones were stolen!” Celtic Cross shouts after me.
I ignore him, closing the gap to Eamo, who’s inspecting the phones, which look as bashed up as he does.
“I told you!” he hisses. “I told you!”
“At least they’re only damaged, not nicked,” I say.
“Oh, brilliant,” he goes, face red.
“Put them away,” I tell him. “Let’s bounce.”
Up the road, Bumfluff yells, “See! It was them!”
Ann shouts after us, “Was it you or your mate that robbed those phones?”
The girl doesn’t want to believe her eyes.
I stay quiet, always a good idea when you’re accused in the right. I focus instead on steering Eamo the opposite way.
“Who are you?!” Ann shouts after me.
Another question I don’t have an answer for.
A tram bell clangs. “The dirtbird’s about to get smushed by the Luas!” I yell, to throw them off.
They turn, either to help him up or to watch. Couldn’t blame them either way.
A few minutes later, we duck into an auld lads’ pub off Smithfield Square and head straight for the jacks. My ear’s throbbing from the elbow I took, and my ribs are bruising up, but the rest of me is intact.
Eamo’s worse off—shiner, cuts, and a nose leaking blood like Rory’s finances. I grab a wad of paper towels and press them to his face. He tries to pull away, but I clamp his head steady. “It’s for your own good!”
Second time tonight I’ve played Mammy. God knows what people say about us behind our backs.
Out in the bar, two auld fellas nurse their pints. We slip into the snug, facing the door. Watching Eamo wrestle open his jacket stuffed with battered phones, I almost feel sorry for him. I don’t ask for my cut or point out the phones are only good for parts now—no sense sending him over the edge.
He checks his own phone and groans. “Rory’s texting me,” he says, showing me the message: Two girls ID’d you. FFS. You’re no good to man nor beast now.
“Told you we should’ve slipped away,” he mutters.
I shrug.
Quieter, he nods towards his groin and asks, “By the way, did they grab your mickey, too?”
“What do you think?”
“Don’t tell anyone.”
“Jesus, I know. Who could we tell anyway? It’d spread like Covid.”
He stares at his phone. “What do I say to yer man?”
“Give it here,” I say, taking his phone.
I type: What about Ian?
Rory replies: The other lad? They didn’t say anything about him. Could he do the job solo?
I respond quick smart: Yep, he can.
Rory’s message arrives a second later: You’re Ian. On your mate’s phone. Right?
When I confirm, Rory responds: Smart fecker, aren’t you? I like smart feckers. Call me.
I’m buzzing. It’s about time I get to do a job on my own. I decide to give it to Eamo straight, “He doesn’t need you anymore. I’ll handle that score myself in future.”
I know what’s coming next, and I allow it. Eamo calls me every name under the sun, a slieveen this and a shitebag that, whinging about his lost earnings on a score he’d set up himself. He goes on for a good five minutes, until he’s out of steam.
“I’ll give you a finder’s fee,” I say. “Anyway, you didn’t fit in there.”
“And you did?” he says.
“I’m talking about your jacket,” I grin. “How’d you get through the door?”
He refuses to raise a smile. “Feck off, you.”
“Right, drinks it is!”
At the bar, I grab two bottles and, on the way back, I spot the jukebox.
I shout to the auld lads, “What’s that Beatles song with the seagulls?”
“Seagulls? Are you sure?” one of them goes. “They had one about a blackbird.”
“Tells you to turn off your mind and float away,” I add.
“Float downstream,” corrects the other. “It’s Tomorrow Never Knows. And they weren’t seagulls. Just Paul speeded up.”
I find the song, press play, and let the drumbeat fill the room. Oh yeah, that’s the one! Eamo glances up, sees me two-stepping like an eejit, and snorts, shaking his head. I hold up his bottle, nodding for him to join me. He hesitates but then shuffles over.
Five times in a row, I play it. We take the piss, copying hipsters’ moves we’ve seen but would never admit to liking. Drinks splash on the threadbare carpet. One auld lad waves his pint, the other sticks fingers in his ears.
The shrink in Oberstown used to say, “Cut out the background noise and focus on what’s inside here,” tapping his temple. I’d nod along, anything for early release.
But I have my own way of handling that noise: I crank up the volume, drowning everything else out—especially what’s in my own head. No one wants to hear what’s going on in there. Least of all me.
[Image Credit : Photo by Danie Franco on Unsplash]
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Latest posts by Alex Costello (see all)
- What Went Down - July 22, 2025
Wow. Just fecking wow.