Free Gurriers by Kevin Brennan Page A

the stare. I decided that my best option was to just get what I was here for and then sort out the radio outside. My voice sounded decidedly shaky as I spoke.
    “I’m here to collect something going to-”
    “Sorry, lads, on the phone there, loadsa yiz callin’. Eight Ray, you’re first –go ahead.” The eruption of Aidan’s voice at such high volume made both of us jump, with me instinctively grabbing at the source with both hands in a frantic attempt to reduce the volume, dropping my helmet in the process.
    Dropping a helmet onto a hard surface is a particularly sickening experience for any biker. A wave of nausea washed over me as the click of me succeeding in turning off the radio was shortly followed by the awful sound of my precious Arai bouncing off the marble floor and then skittering the remaining few feet to the reception desk before coming to rest with a wooden thud.
    “Could you turn that thing down!” Not only did she look like a schoolteacher, but she sounded like one too. Her total lack of sympathy for the damage inflicted on my expensive piece of property, her barkingly derisive tone of voice and her belayed order to perform the very action that had caused the aforementioned damage, enraged me.
    I glared at her as I picked up my helmet before continuing my business in a firmer voice. “I’m here to collect something for Baggot Street.”
    “Is your radio turned down?”
    “It’s off!”
    She pursed her lips and held me momentarily in a stare that would have been better aimed at a rapist than at a nice person like me before averting her eyes to follow her hands to a plastic tray full of letters on the desk in front of her to the left.
    “Baggot Street.” The triumphant call heralded the extraction of the appropriate envelope from the confines of its bedfellows, which was then extended towards me in a manner which was no doubt intended to exude efficiency.
    Instead of taking the envelope off the old witch immediately, I examined the side of my helmet that had hit the ground for three or four seconds, leaving her stuck there holding it and knowing that my helmet was more important to me than she was. I’m sure she was just about to say something when I finally snatched it from her hand, turned on my heel and marched out of the building.
    This would have looked a lot more impressive as a gesture of indignance if I hadn’t had so much trouble getting the door open, struggling so much to get the envelope into the bag while holding onto my poor damaged helmet for dear life.
    I was still struggling when I got back to the bike. Having managed to slide the bag from back to front over my hip and having thrown the big flap over my shoulder, I was attempting to open the Velcro fastening enough for the letter to squeeze into the bag. This was proving more than a little difficult with the bulky helmet on my arm, so I first put the helmet on and then used both hands to bag the letter before closing the flap and awkwardly sliding the bag around to my back once more.
    On top of everything else that I was going to have to master, I was going to have to get well accustomed to manoeuvring and utilising the variety of equipment that was involved in this job also.
    I turned the radio on, removed my disc lock and got on the bike, firing up the engine while concentrating on my next destinations.
    Drop Baggot Street, pick up Leeson Street, then on to Kilmainham, I repeated the list in my mind.
    “Shit!” I was just clicking my bike into gear when I realised that I had no idea what number I was going to on Baggot Street.
    I put the bike back into neutral before wrestling the bag back to the front and removing the letter, scrutinised the address, giving out to myself as I clumsily shoved it back in.
    “Memo to self - always learn the address before placing envelope in bag.” I realised that I had said this out loud, and angrily too, as a passerby momentarily looked at me as if I had been giving out to