I hear someone curse loudly, and a car door slam. I look back and see yellow Ferrari fella reading his parking ticket. So that’s what he looks like. Surprisingly young. My cheese sandwich covers my mouth, hiding my smirk. I don’t usually enjoy this kind of thing, ticketing cars isn’t personal, it’s a duty, but the car being what it is and all that. He’s tall, skinny, man-child, in his twenties. Wearing a red cap. It looks like a MAGA cap but when I get a better look I see it has a Ferrari symbol. Even more of a wanker. He shoves the ticket in his pocket, his movements all huffy puffy, irritated and angry, and opens the car door.
I chuckle.
There’s no possible way he could have heard me, I was quiet, the cheese sandwich was my soundproofing, and we’re too far apart, separated by a road, but as though he senses he’s been watched, he looks around and sees me.
The sandwich feels like a brick in my mouth. I try to swallow it but remember too late that I haven’t chewed it yet. I choke, cough and look away from him to dislodge the food from my throat. Finally it loosens and I spit into a tissue but some crumbs are still left there, tickling. I wash it down with tea and when I look back at him, he’s still staring. He doesn’t look concerned, more like he was hoping he’d witness me choke to death. He glares at me, sits into the car, bangs the door and speeds off. The noise of the engine turns a few heads.
My heart is pounding.
I was right. Wanker.
Five
After lunch I patrol the coast road. Parking here is used by a lot of people getting the train into work, as though it’s a park-and-go area. At least at first it is; they quickly learn their lesson though. They think they’ll get away with paying the maximum three hours, get a train into the city, leave their car there the entire day and return at six p.m. Maybe they get away with it with Paddy, but not me. I don’t reward half-assed attempts, a mere gesture of a down-payment. You pay for the hours you use, no special treatment, not even if you walk with a limp.
As I’m making my way back towards the village, I see the yellow Ferrari a few spots down from where it was earlier, and I feel a tingle of excitement. It’s like chess. He’s made his next move. I could technically finish for the evening; it’s 5.55 p.m. The pay and display ends at 6 p.m. Nobody could pay for exactly five minutes even if they tried, ten minutes is the minimum, and though I’m a stickler for the rules I don’t expect people to overpay either. Money is no laughing matter. I look around and make sure the driver isn’t in sight or watching. I lower my cap over my eyes, and hurry to the car. I glance at the windscreen, my heart pounding.
He has paid. For the first time ever. My tickets have worked. I broke him down. Suspect interrogation a success. However, it was up at 5.05 p.m. He’d paid the three euro for the maximum of three hours at 2.05, and it irritates me that he thought by doing so he’d get the final hour for free. That’s not how it works.
Before I issue a new ticket, I scan his reg to make sure he hasn’t paid online. Nope.
I tut and shake my head. This guy doesn’t do himself any favours. If he’d kept his earlier parking fine on the windscreen I wouldn’t be able to issue him another. There’s clearly no thought given to helping himself.
I issue the fine.
And then I very quickly walk away.
When I’ve finished my day’s work I can’t go home. I told Becky that I’d be out and there’s not many places I can go to in a parking warden uniform on a Friday evening. I buy fish and chips from a takeaway and go to Malahide Castle grounds and watch a gang of teenagers with suspiciously full backpacks searching for a secret drinking spot.
It starts to get dark at nine-ish and I can’t stay out much longer, they’re locking up the castle grounds and I’m bored, I’m cold and frankly I don’t want my Friday night to be ruined on account of my refusing to babysit. I guess if they’ve found someone else to do it then it will be safe for me to go back by now.
It’s nine-thirty when I get back to the house. I see the kids flashing by various windows, but no parents so I don’t know if Becky and Donnacha stayed in or got another babysitter. I keep my head down anyway, hoping they won’t see me and say oh look you’re back early, can we go out now. I’m cold and tired, I want a shower and my pyjamas.
I know something isn’t right as soon as I step inside the gym. The lights are off but it feels like someone is in the building. I don’t close the door behind me just in case it’s an intruder and I have to run. I’m not that scared, I assume it’s Donnacha. There’s a door to his office off the gym and a spiral staircase that leads to my studio flat. His office is beneath my room and is used for viewing porn and wanking. Possibly also for invoicing and accounts.
There’s nobody in the office and the sound is coming from upstairs, my bedroom. I briefly wonder if I’ve left my TV on, but I know that I didn’t. It sounds too real. Breathy and grunty and groany and sighy. Somebody is having sex in my room. Preferably two bodies. Discovering one would be even more awkward.
First thought, it’s Becky and Donnacha. If I wouldn’t babysit for them, they’re going to punish me by coming all over my sheets while I’m out, disgusting spoiled over-privileged folk they are. Can you be over-privileged, or is just privileged enough. I’m not sure. Second thought, it’s Donnacha. Maybe Becky went out anyway and he had to stay in. Maybe he’s decided to have some fun without his wife. Lean-in wife in insecure cheating husband shocker. I wonder with a shudder how often he’s used my place.
I tread lightly on the spiral staircase, my lightweight boots despite their design are heavy and clumpy for sleuthing. My phone’s ready in my hand. The door to my room is slightly ajar, which is a silly mistake to make so I guess it’s deliberate. Not to be caught, no one wants that, but so they could hear if somebody enters. But you’d never hear an intruder with sex that loud. I’ve arrived at the right time. I hold the phone up and film, which is everybody’s go-to now when something violent, dangerous or peculiar happens. Film now, think later. We’ve lost our gumption. Our compassion. Our instincts to react. The instinct now is to film now, think and feel later.
A hairy, muscular bum pounds away between a pair of bronzed lithe legs up in the air, her thighs held in place, impressively wide, by her own manicured fingernails. Shellac or gel, I can’t tell. Wonderful flexibility and how kind of her to hold herself open for him. A gentlewoman in the sack. I recognise those nails, those legs. It is Becky.
Ah. And so this must be Donnacha’s ass. Nice to meet you.
Now that I’ve discovered my landlords, I’m a little less smug at having caught them, and more disgusted. It’s their property but it’s my personal space and this is a violation. If I could issue them a ticket, I would. I’d smack it against his hairy arse, hoping the sticky bit would burn like hell when he pulls it off. I lower my phone and go back downstairs quietly, and wait for them to finish, which they do, loudly and with great gusto. So proud of their clever selves. Then I go right back up the steps again, this time as normal, just a pair of heavy tired feet after a hard day’s work. I’ve given them time to at least disentangle themselves so I hope they’ve covered up. I push the door open, making sure I register surprise on my face that first my door is unlocked and secondly my discovery.