The sour-faced beauty stares out at me. Hiya, she says.
She’s long-legged, brunette with tight black jeans, ripped strategically at the thighs, high-heeled sandals, a check shirt, one half tucked into the waistline of her high-rise jeans, buttons open halfway, sleeves rolled up. A sexy meshy vest or bodysuit beneath. Effortlessly cool. Messily sexy. It’s all so crisp and clean. A lot of eyebrows on her face. Thick caterpillars, skilfully pruned and brushed. Hooped earrings. Big lips. Lots of lips. Skin so clear it’s almost not real. Not one blemish, not one freckle or hair. It looks as though it’s been scraped clean, a new packet of butter when the lid is peeled off, the ground after a fresh snow. The whites of her eyes so white, her eyes the kind of amber that reminds me of Pops’ cello bow resin. The new female species. Kendall Jenner’s body with Kylie Jenner’s face. Or wearing her make-up line at least.
Hello, I say, I’m a parking warden for Fingal County Council. I would like to speak with the owner of the yellow Ferrari.
I stand a little straighter than I usually would. I’m taller than her. I don’t know why that should make me feel better but it does. I look past her, down the long corridor, to where the shouting is coming from. It’s all greys and whites. Walls, cornicing, wooden panelling, like something out of an interiors magazine. A cat wanders down the hall towards us. Grey and white, as if it was dipped to match the interiors.
Rooster’s in a meeting, she says, bending down to pick up the cat, air kisses it so that her glossy lips don’t stick to the fluff. Her nails are the long pointy kind that could do some damage. Fake ones, painted a blush colour. There’s another cheer, from down the hall.
Rooster, I ask.
Rooster owns the Ferrari, she says.
I’m very disappointed. Not by the name. That’s a gift. What better name for the wanker owner of a tosspot car. I thought this would be the perfect opportunity to talk to him again. Come face to face with the fox. Ask him more about the five people, the hex, the curse he placed on me. What does it mean and why does it bother me so. But I shouldn’t waste the trip entirely.
I raise the manila envelope in the air.
I want to leave this for him, I tell her.
Yeah sure, what’s it about, she asks.
She struggles to keep the cat in her hands. Her pointy nails look like they’re going to pierce it and send it flying around the room. The cat frees itself and finally leaps out of her arms towards me. It lands on the doormat, then darts backwards away from me as if I’m the threat. Contrary fecker.
It’s in relation to his parking, I say. I noticed that he parks here every day and that he has a business. I pause. Is this a business, I ask.
She narrows her amber eyes. Well, yeah, of course.
I wanted to give him this paperwork, I say, handing the envelope to her. It’s an application for a special parking permit. The annual fee is six hundred euro, which can be paid at once or monthly. It means he’ll get a disc on the dashboard and he won’t have to worry about pay-and-display parking or fines.
I give her a small smile when I mention the fines but she doesn’t seem to get it. Any of it.
Hold on, she says, confused. Are you a sales person.
No, I sigh, I’m a parking warden. I say it slowly and clearly.
She looks me up and down, there’s another cheer from the back of the building, a final one, and the voices get louder as a group of young men file out of a room in the back and down the corridor. They all look similar. Jeans, trainers, T-shirts, caps, hair, facial hair. Moisturised and smelling good. What’s the collective noun for boy-banders. A bunch. A gaggle. A bouquet. A dazzle.
The parking angel sees me.
Shit, is it up, he asks, looking at a large-faced watch with a pink strap on his wrist.
Yes, I begin, but I’m—
Rooster’s in a meeting, he interrupts me. Has been for the past three hours so he can’t top it up. I asked you to do it, he looks at her.
I didn’t know, she shrugs. Anyway she’s, like, selling parking permits.
No, I’m—
Just take it from her, Parking Angel says, with a limp dismissive flick of his hand in my direction and disappears into the office, the one he watches out for me from the window like he’s on the night’s watch guarding the wall. Lads criss-cross the hall from one room to another, the cat, and a small dog too. They look at me, interested at first, then away again, uninterested. I give up.
Okay. Bye.
I turn around and walk down the steps. I should check the remainder of cars on the street but I can’t be bothered sticking around. They got lucky today. I feel hot around my eyes. I hear a snigger and the door closes. I decide to take an early lunch. That way Paddy can’t join me and I won’t have to talk about what happened, relive the episode.
There’s someone sitting on my bench.
Fuck.
I say it out loud.
The elderly couple sitting on it look at me. The man is leaning forward, holding onto a cane, wheezing as he breaths heavily.
Do you think you’ll be here long, I ask them.
They both look at me.
Alive or on the bench, he asks.
On the bench, I say.
He needs a rest, she says, defensively.
Do I need a ticket, he asks, eyes twinkling, and I smile.
I’ll let you off this time.
I recalibrate. Everything off again today.
I sit on a low stone wall overlooking the marina. I’ve never sat here before and I feel like a dog, circling it a few times before choosing how to sit. Before me is a boat slipway leading down into silky water. Calm and mirror-like on this fine day. A man stands in the centre of the slipway, hands in his pockets staring out. I watch him for a while, then the island across the way. Now and then I see a few dots moving as golfers traverse the golf course on the island.
I’ve just bitten into my cheese sandwich when a foot and leg appears over the wall beside me, quickly joined by a full body. I recognise the trainers first. Prada.
Mind if I join you, he asks. He stands, waiting to be welcomed.
Sure.
He sits.
Thanks for these, he says, the envelope and the loose pages in his hand. I just got out of a meeting. I’m guessing they’re from you.
I thought it would be easier for you than to keep running out and topping up the machine. Most businesses around here use parking permits.
Yeah makes sense. Thanks.
I take another bite of my sandwich. I can feel him staring at me, chewing becomes unrhythmical and unnatural. I should have spoken instead of eating. That timing thing again. Swallow.
Look, you can pay for parking whatever way you want, I say, but if you don’t, I have to ticket you, it’s my job, it’s not personal. I don’t have a vendetta against you. I ticket lots of cars. Most of the time I don’t know the owners.
Though I do have a very good memory for who owns what around here, but I don’t bother telling him that.
Look, I’m very sorry about the other day, he says, about ripping up the ticket and saying what I said. It was extremely disrespectful, really out of character, I don’t usually, I mean I never blow up like that, and I didn’t mean it.
Yes you did.
Well I did at the time, but it wasn’t … I’m sorry anyway.
He cowered immediately. Maybe chickens can scare foxes, maybe snails can crush people.
Tell me more about it, I say.