She washed herself with a cold efficiency. Maebh was obsessed with practicality, every move she made wasted as little time as possible. She had always been bad at relaxing. For as long as she could remember, she had thought of the act as just one more task on an ever-growing to-do list.

“Shower’s free!” She shouted from the hallway.

 

~

 

He washed himself with a manic incompetence. Culadán pushed and pulled his skin with too much force; and spent too long contemplating the purpose of the various shampoos, conditioners, and soaps. He was obsessed with the wonders of the world he lived in; and hadn’t lost his childhood curiosity to the banality of his work.

“Shower’s free!” He shouted from the hallway.

Maebh – fully dressed, her hair up in a towel – cocked her head to the side at her coworker.

“What?”

 

~

 

Culadán stood at the zebra crossing, wondering why it wasn’t letting him walk. Maebh appeared at his shoulder.

“Did you press it?”

He blinked at her.

“The button.”

“Oh!” He tapped the metal circle on the pole, and when nothing seemed to change, he pressed it firmer. He found it pleasing, the way his finger bent.

“Do you think it impedes your work as a journalist? Being so unobservant?” She sipped her coffee accusingly, tapping her finger to the beat of the crossing box.

He laughed, painedly, and went back to people watching. Truth being told, Culadán had buckets full of observation. He paid attention past the point of migraines.

He noticed how that woman there in the Doc Martins slid her feet forward as she walked, her postured movements too languid to be performed by a creature with a spine. He watched as an invisible line across her neck opened occasionally, a hint of purple beneath the skin. She reached into her tote bag, pulling out an unreasonably large water bottle.

Culadán’s gaze was pulled to the other side of the street as a loud car pulled up outside a real estate agents. The car was black and full of sheen, not a single scratch on it. Through the tinted windows of the partitioned backseat Culadán could almost see water sloshing back and forth, filled to the top of the windows.

Culadán was always paying attention. Those paying attention in 2020 would have noticed Rudy Giuliani in court dripping beads of black sweat from either side of his head.

That wasn’t sweat causing his black hair dye to run.

Like most human beings in positions of power, Rudy Giuliani occasionally leaked ink from almost imperceptible folds in his flesh. He drank more water than your average person; and when he swallowed, his Adam’s apple did everything right. But if you looked closely, you couldn’t see the liquid pass behind his neck muscles. The water travelled through a series of tubes all throughout his hollow skin-suit, refreshing the soft, fragile body of the Octopus who was Rudy. The real Rudy.

 

~

 

“When was the last time you saw him?” Maebh put down her tea on the coffee table and leant forward, as she had been taught to do.

“Tuesday. Little prick needed a lift over the harbour.” The Fisherman was splayed out on his couch. He looked bored, and there was whisky in his coffee.

“Where to?” Said Culadán. His tea was too hot, and it was stressing him out. Maebh shot him a look.

“I dunno, there’s a piss-up every weekday if you can find the right house.” The Fisherman took a deep swig of his ‘coffee’ and looked out his shack window. “The university’s over there, and you know how students are.”

“He’d been working for you for how long?” Said Maebh.

“About a year. I used to think he was cut out for it, ‘til he started faffing off with his skinhead buddy.” The fisherman scowled as he took a bruised cigarette from his pocket.

“Skinhead? His name wasn’t Geoffrey, was it?” Blurted Culadán.

The Fisherman blew out a wafting puff of smoke. “Nah.”

Maebh mouthed ‘the fuck was that?’ at Culadán and motioned that he should leave. He stood up abruptly.

“Do you have a bathroom?”

“Yes,” replied the Fisherman.

Silence.

The pause was too long for Culadán to handle. He knew there must be a social cue he was missing, but the rules for what to do next eluded him. He nodded at the gruff old man.

“Thanks.”

Culadán turned and left, down the shack’s messy hallway. A hoarder’s collection of boating and fishing equipment poured off every available surface. Eventually he found a toilet stained a yellow brown with age. The bathroom door hung off its hinges but stayed in place when locked. Culadán heard the Fisherman laughing through the walls. Maebh said something, but he couldn’t make out what it was over the cacophony on the beach. That’s curious, he thought, and climbed out the tiny bathroom window.

 

Culadán weaved his way through the gathering crowd, the air was rife with something. It was an emotion he couldn’t place, a soup with distinct ingredients that felt contradictory to him. Rage, love, fear, relief. He saw the mother he and Maebh had interviewed the previous day. She had fat tears streaming down her face. They looked salty.

The Mother shoulder-charged a naked young man, screamed in his face, and hugged him tightly. The crowd had stepped back to give them space, but Culadán’s curiosity had reached its peak. He walked up and tapped the Mother on the shoulder. She spun around, a fleck of mascara landed in Culadán’s mouth.

“Hello! Reporter here, remember me? What’s going on?”

“My son!” Screamed the Mother, “He’s back!”

Culadán looked the Young Man up and down. “Him?”

The Young Man vomited sea water. He had been struggling to stand for a while and seemed to be having trouble communicating.

Culadán gave the Young Man a wink. “First day?”

The Young Man’s eyes grew wide. He nodded.

Culadán turned to the crowd, “Everyone clear off! Give the family some privacy!”

The crowd dispersed relatively quickly, and soon the three of them were alone. Culadán rummaged around in his tote-bag. He took out a small pearl and a pointed seashell.

“Stand still,” he said to the Young Man, who obliged. Culadán placed the pearl on the man’s chest, and a business-casual suit identical to Culadán’s own wrapped itself around the naked man’s frame.

“Stand still,” he said to the Mother, who obliged. Culadán stabbed the seashell into her neck, and the woman slumped to the ground, unconscious.

The Young Man looked emotionlessly down at her, while Culadán arranged her limbs more comfortably and placed her bag underneath her head.

“What’s your name, comrádaí?” Said Culadán.

“I do not know yet.” Said the Young Man, “I was waiting for her to tell me.”

“Come with me,” said Culadán. And the pair walked back up the beach towards the Fisherman’s shack.

 

~

 

Culadán knocked on the front door, the laughing stopped. The Fisherman opened the door.

“Ah, used nature’s toilet, did we?” Said the Fisherman.

Culadán motioned behind himself, “Is this your man?”

The Fisherman followed Culadán’s finger and pushed him aside.

“There you are you fucknut! You’ve had your mother near death! I-” He stopped his march. “What are you wearing, boy?”

The Young Man looked at his clothes. “Clothes?”

The Fisherman’s forehead bulged with blood vessels. He grabbed a tuft of the Young Man’s hair and threw him aside. “Go home, boy, come see if you’re fired in the morning.”

Maebh emerged from the shack, “You!” She ran down the steps and helped the Young Man to his feet. Turning to the Fisherman, she continued, “We’ll see him right home, don’t you worry.”

“You’re odd,” he said, pointing to Culadán. He shifted his gaze to Maebh and his hard shell softened a little. “But it was a pleasure meeting you, Maebh. Tell your grandad he’s welcome on my boat next time he’s in town.”

“Will do.” She grinned.

He walked up the steps, gave the Young Man one last scornful look, and slammed the door.

“Right,” Said Maebh, “Where’s the car?”

“We walked.” Said Culadán.

“Fuck.”