Free Fever (Flu) by Wayne Simmons Page A

little older than he initially thought. Maybe twenty-five. She wasn’t unattractive, even with the braces. She looked over, and he knew she wanted him to buy her a drink.
    “I’m... er... kinda not working right now,” he said.
    She smiled. “ Kinda not working ?” she said. “What does kinda not working mean?”
    Ciaran looked down finding a beer mat on the table. He picked it up and twirled it around his fingers. “Been signing on. Got a new job today but don’t start for a couple of weeks.”
    “Well, congratulations then. I’ll get you a drink to celebrate.” She pointed at his pint of Harp. “Another one of them?”
    “Er, yeah,” he said. “Thanks.”
    He watched her walk to the bar, looking her up and down. There were a couple of fellas standing nearby, pints in hand. One of them looked over and nodded at Ciaran as if to say, Nice one, mate . Ciaran looked away.
    The phone in his pocket vibrated, causing him to jump. He retrieved it, looked at the screen. MAM CALLING. He swore then selected IGNORE CALL. He switched the phone off and slid it back into the pocket of his joggers.
    The girl was back now. She sat another pint beside his half-empty glass and slid into her seat. A glass of what looked to be Coke was in her hand.
    “That vodka?” he said.
    She sniffed the glass. “No. Just Coke.”
    “Don’t you drink?”
    She looked up at the television as if the answer to his question might be there. Rooney was arguing with the referee. The bar erupted again, the group of fellas nearby pointing at the screen and shouting.
    “I used to,” she said, still watching the TV.
    Ciaran nodded. New conversation needed. “What do you do?”
    She turned back. “I’m a teacher,” she said.
    “Yeah? What do you teach?”
    “Just everything. Primary school.”
    “What age?”
    “P 7. Ten and eleven year olds.”
    Ciaran smiled. “They’re wee shits at that age.”
    She laughed, took a sip of her drink, then asked, “What’s your new job?”
    Ciaran looked at the clear plastic envelop sitting on the table beside him. “Just joined the TA,” he said.
    His voice was muted. Apologetic.
    “Wow,” she said but she didn’t look wowed.
    “Yeah,” he said. “It’s just a job.”
    He lifted his pint and drank deeply. He went to set it back on the table, but she stopped his hand.
    “Let’s drink to your new job,” she said, then put her lips around the straw. He watched the Coke move up towards her mouth. He lifted his own glass again, lightly knocking it against hers as she continued to drink. He drained his own glass dry.
    Voices swelled suddenly around them. Someone had scored.
    “What’s your name?” Ciaran said, leaning closer to the girl.
    “Julie,” she shouted over the noise of the crowd. And then she smiled again.

CHAPTER TWO
    Waringstown, County Down, 1st June
    The boot sale was less crowded than usual.
    Martin’s stall was gaining little attention; people weren’t interested in the contents of his garage, the old records and books, the toolbox he’d never used. He’d dusted them all down, even polished a few things to give them a shine, but still no takers.
    He reached a hand by his side finding his dog, Fred. He stroked the dog’s fur as it slept peacefully. Fred was his right-hand man. The old dog lay beside Martin’s deck chair, soaking up the heat, giving moral support.
    Martin looked at the other stall-holders, the ones with trinkets and curiosity items. He wondered why folks bought such junk. Then again, these things were more social than anything else. All about the chit-chat.
    He wasn’t a boot sale regular; twice a year would usually clear him out.
    People here wanted a bargain, something for nothing. Martin had learned to barter over the years, not allowing folks to grab his stuff for buttons. One time, when Martin was greener to it all, some old pro bought half the stuff on his table, only to add it to his own stall, selling at twice the price. These tools he brought