Fifteen Minutes

“Er… How did it happen?”, Rob asked lamely. It was a strange situation for him but he remembered someone ask that on TV once and it seemed appropriate now. Rob sat, as the Garda had suggested, on the low parameter wall of his rented bungalow. The Garda stood towering over him with a narrow notepad and a pencil held forcibly against the paper. Rob could see a small hand-held computer discarded on the passenger seat of the squad car.

“Sorry Lad, I can’t be revealing that sort of information at this early stage in the investigations. Can you describe, for the record, your relationship with the deceased?”

Rob would have been more comfortable standing but felt a need to appear emotionally effected by the news, and it seemed that the Garda was taking more note of Rob’s reaction to the questions than to his answers. Rob was self conscious of the fact that he didn’t really care beyond how it effected him.

“He’s a lecturer in the UL Physics department where I study,” replied Rob slowly. “And he’s supervising my final year project…”

“Uhu…”, said the Garda. He was looking at his notes but he added nothing after Robs reply. “And would you have an explanation as to why your name and address were found at the scene?”

Rob was stumped. The Garda seemed to take note of Rob’s surprise and wrote something down before asking the final question.

“Did Mr. Santerre ever mention any personal difficulties he may have been having? Any family problems?”

‘Family?’ thought Rob. It had never crossed his mind that the old man had a wife or kids to go home to, and Rob was sure that Santerre had never thought of Rob having an existence outside of the Physics department.

“No, Garda. We never spoke personally, only ever about projects and stuff…”

The Garda flipped closed his notepad, concluding with “that’s enough questions for a Friday night.” He stuck his head into the squad car and routed around in the glove compartment. He reappeared with a creased leaflet and handing it to Rob said,

“I’m required to give you this to help ‘deal with your grief’, but by the looks of you I think you’ll get over it.” the Garda wore a crooked, knowing smile. Rob looked back with suspicion of what the Garda thought he might know. The leaflet had a grim photo of a man and woman dressed in black and bore the title ‘Coming to terms with your loss‘. It had a phone number for the Samaritans on the back.

(change above to Trainee Guard Idea)

For the first time in weeks Rob visited Harry in the sitting room. A cloud of bluish smoke hung in the darkened room with only the flickering light of the TV and Harry’s lit joint end for illumination. Harry was surprised to see him but simply indicated towards Robs traditional seat on the couch. Rob felt his way through the dark and haze and flopped down, staring blankly at the TV. Nothing was said for several minutes. The screen was still showing live footage of the Rag-Top. The camera switched between the band on stage and pictures of Jen dancing. The volume was on very low. Harry broke the near silence.

“Well.” he said certainly, and, exhaling deeply, he reached over and passed the joint to Rob. Rob nodded an acknowledgement and took the roll. He stared at it.

“Ran out of Rizler”, explained Harry. He had used a scrap of paper torn from a magazine.

“Met a Guard outside.”, started Rob.

Harry raised an eyebrow. “Good thing you didn’t bring him home”, he said.

“My supervisor down the college was found dead, they thought I might have been the last person to see him.” Rob was still staring down at the spliff.

Harry sized him up thoughtfully, searching for the correct response.

“G’way”, he said finally.

“Ya,” he replied, “bit of a fucking shock, you know.” He raised the joint to his lips and inhaled deeply. He held it there, as far down as he could keep it. It burned his throat a little but the grey warmth of the smoke relaxed him. When he finally let it out, some of his worries had left him as well.

“Santerre?” asked Harry, “The guy you’re always complaining about?”

Rob nodded.

“So…” began Harry, coyly, “So, you finally topped the bastard.”

A broad smile broke across Rob’s face.

“Ya,” he said, “Your man just pushed me around once too often!” Rob laughed.

“One cryptic reply too many, eh? Just pushed you over the edge.” Harry was delighted. It had been too long since he’d had a laugh with Rob.

“Wow,” said Harry, shaking his head, “That’ll put the shivers up the next guy, won’t it”

Rob went serious. “What d’ye mean?” he asked, taking another drag.

Harry tried to continue the joke. “Well, whoever they get to replace your man, Santerre. He’ll be scared shitless knowing your last supervisor kicked it.”

“Shit, ya.” replied Rob. “Hadn’t thought I’d need a replacement. Kinda felt free of it all.”

The weight of his worries returned. ‘Which one will they give me?’ he thought silently.

“You should get on to Jim about it. He knows the whole department” suggested Harry.

Rob nodded, but he wasn’t sure. Jim used to be one of Harry and Rob’s best friends, but they had drifted apart when Jim had dropped out of physics some years ago. Rob hadn’t spoken to him in months.

“There’s something else as well…” began Rob, and he recounted his encounter with O’Dwyer. Harry looked worried at the end of it.

“Fuck,” said Harry, by way of conclusion. “So, that’s why the Guards were talking to you. Jesus, I just assumed the guy had had a heart attack or something.”

“Hay,” interjected Rob, “Nobody said he was murdered. You watch too much TV.”

Harry looked hurt at this accusation.

“Ya, probably nothing”, agreed Harry, but he wasn’t convinced. “Lecturers fight worse than tinkers.”

Rob looked at his watch and then stood up. He felt dizzy from the smoke.

“Gotta do some study.” He said.

Harry advised him against it. “Bollox” he said.

“No, I have to. Supervisor or not, I still have my presentation next week” Rob headed towards his room.

Harry knew when he was defeated. “Suit yourself”, he said, and returned to the TV.

Students were still queuing outside the stables. Rory, Mike, John and David were waiting impatiently in the crowd, feeling shy at being far less drunk than those surrounding them. There was a loud drum beat pounding the air and frequent fevered shouts from inside making everyone eager to get inside.

“We just need to get fecking tonnes of drink.” Rory was shouting, trying to be heard by his friends over the din. That morning they had been planning a house party to celebrate ragweek.

“This is all bollox anyway,” shouted John firmly, “Can’t have a house party without a house. Could get a whole keg but it wouldn’t be much of a fecking party if we were out on the fecking street in the rain.” He was still cross with Rory.

A gentle ripple of movement spread down through the crowd as everyone took a step forward.

“What’s the fecking hold up? F’fexake!” Mike stretched up, trying to see why the bouncers were not letting the revellers in more quickly.

A guy standing in front of Mike turned around at this and, raising is arms to the air, yelled “For Feck Sake!” at the top of his voice straight into Mike‘s face. His face was wild and his eyes wide with insanity. His friend calmed him and the guy turned away.

“Jesus,” shouted Mike to Rory, “There’s stuff going around here that has nothing to do with drink!”

“Christ,” agreed Rory, “Ragweek just feels weird with out being pissed. Lets get inside quickly.”

Rory stepped out of the crowd and went to investigate the top of the queue, returning a few moments later with bad news.

“They are checking ID‘s.” He shouted.

“They’re taking their fucking time about it.”, yelled David.

“I’m buggered lads.” roared John with a look of misery.

“You didn’t fecking forget it, you tosser?” questioned Rory.

“No,” He yelled. “I’ve got it, but I’m underage.”

His friends looked from one to another, before laughing in disbelief.

“You mean you actually told them your real age when you got the card?” yelled Mike.

John shrugged. David shook his head and muttered ‘plonker’.

Rory put his hand on John’s shoulder and kindly shouted, “We’ll see you tomorrow, so.”

John’s face fell. He stared down at his useless ID. The crowd rippled foreword again.

“Hang on a minute,” roared Mike. He routed in his pocket and produced a felt pen. He took the card and changed the last digit of John’s birth date. “Special pen for writing on CD’s. Doesn’t rub off. Worth a try…” He explained.

“Hurray for the physicist!” roared David, slapping Mike on the back.

John didn’t seem satisfied. “It’s the wrong colour” He tried to say, but he had reached the top of the queue and Rory pushed him ahead up to a particularly large bouncer.

The bouncer wore the standard black leather jacket, earpiece and angry bald-man appearance. He glanced at card John nervously held out and, with a look of distain, let him pass onto the holy ground of the stables.

David had followed John to the same bouncer. He again merely glanced at the card but as David was walking away the bouncer grabbed his arm roughly and with a slight sideways flick of his head, called him back.

“Let me see that card again.” he said. It wasn’t a request.

David handed over the card and watched as the bouncer turned it over and back in his hand, finally saying, “You really are nineteen aren’t you.” David nodded and the bouncer handed back the card.

“First genuine ID I’ve seen all night.” He said, and turned back to the next student.

The four friends stood in awe at the spectacle before them. A tall circus tent had been erected to completely cover the courtyard area of the stables, trapping a hot and humid atmosphere below. On the stage a cover band called “You Again” were playing badly and not eliciting much interest. The majority of the crowd surrounded the long temporary bar that lined one side of the courtyard. Dozens of young barmen and women were fighting a loosing battle to serve the hoards of thirsty students. This was the world famous Rag-top.

Rory shoved some money into Mike’s hand. “Right you are boy,” he yelled, “your turn up to the bar.” John and David followed his lead and handed over their shares.

“Ah, fuck,” replied Mike, “It’ll take fecking hours to get to the bar!”

“Better get going then,” roared Rory, grinning.

Mike headed off, fighting his way through the staggering drunkards to the end of the queue.

The remaining three found an unused wooden keg-table near to one of the tent supports and piled their jackets on to it. That done they just stood, periodically staring into the crowd or at the stage. The music was too loud to have a conversation and, until Mike returned with the drinks they had nothing to do with their hands. They began to feel awkward. John leaned over to David.

“Aw fuck I’m still sober and I can’t help it.” he yelled into David’s ear.

David thought to reply but reconsidered when he realised how much effort it would require. He simply nodded in agreement. They stood again in noisy silence.

Being in a pub completely sober was a new experience for Rory. He noticed details about the place he hadn’t seen before. The tent was blue. And there were an amazing number of discarded helium balloons caught in it. He knew these were improper thoughts for a Friday night but he couldn’t help himself. As he stared at the crowd he saw that people moved in currents, flowing in rivers around the building. People joined these flows to move swiftly through the crowd and then stepped out when they reached their destination. He saw that David had positioned himself to the side of one of these drunkard rivers, and he watched a pretty but extremely drunk brunette step out when she reached him. She gave him a hug.

“Hiya, Rachael, you having a good night?” yelled David. It was the standard greeting.

She stared blankly at him for a moment, smiling and then slowly turned her ear toward him. He yelled his question again.

“I’m, ah,” she began, but then seemed to forget her thought. She tried again. “Greath!” she slurred. She shut her eyes and swayed unsteadily. David grabbed her when she looked like she was going to fall. Then opening her eyes again she leaned over to David’s ear and yelled,

“Its greath to see you here again, Diarmuid.” She wobbled a little again and had to hold his arm for support. Her top was very low cut. “I was justh going somewhere…” She looked blankly into the distance. She put her arm around his neck.

“David, actually”, yelled David, but the girl didn’t hear. She looked back at him, smiling.

“Would you like a drinkh?”, she asked, “I’d like a… anoder” He nodded positively.

“Well,”, she said, “Letsh get a drink” She stood up straight, took his hand, and marched off through the crowd in the opposite direction to the bar, bumping into every second person. The last an envious Rory and John saw of David was his wide grin as he gave them the thumbs up sign.

After half an hour of standing without a drink Rob decided to send a text message to Mike. His reply came shortly after saying that he was about half way there. Rory cursed.

The band on stage finished. The crowd seemed relived. As they were packing up to make way for the next act Jen came up on stage and got everyone’s attention. She was wearing a shiny silver miniskirt, high metallic silver boots and a skimpy top with the words “Rag-Challenge, sponsored by Miller Genuine Draft” emblazoned across her chest. Holding a large microphone she pranced about on the stage, asking mildly inane questions like “Are ye all having a good time?”. The crowd loved it and moved as a herd towards the stage. Mike‘s path to the bar was suddenly clear but he knew that this would be his only opportunity. He returned to his friends shortly afterwards carrying a tray with twenty small plastic goblets of a putrid smelling sticky blue liquid.

“I’m not going near the fucking bar again tonight.” He explained crossly.

The three lads cheerfully start throwing back the shots of aftershock, grimacing each time.

On stage, Jen was announcing the rules of a competition and asking for participants. Her amplified voice was muffled by the noise of the pub so that Rory could not understand what she was asking to be done. He could only make out that it would last sixty seconds and the prize was a whole keg of miller. In his inebriated mind he considered the potential benefits of getting close to Jen on stage and walking off with a keg for his house party plans and, seeing that none of the eager fellas near the stage had volunteered, seized the moment and marched up through the crowd. The mob parted to allow him to pass and he didn’t notice any of the queer looks cast in his direction. When he reached the stage Jen reached out her hand and pulled him up.

The crowd cheers and the camera zooms in on Rory. He gives an eager look towards Jen. She raises his hand up high and shouts “We have a volunteer!”

The crowd reply with a mixture of cheers, boos and laughter.

“But one man isn’t enough to satisfy me,” she continued, whipping her audience into a frenzy. “Are any of you fellas butch enough to come up here too?” She marched around the stage, periodically pointing at fellas in the crowd and attempting to entice them onto the stage. None who had been close enough to hear her explanation of the challenge would accept.

John was staring enviously at Rory and his proximity to Jen. The alcohol had settled firmly into his system and removed his inhibitions.

“Ah, fuck it”, he declared, and, throwing back a final shot, he marched up towards the stage. The noise of the crowd was deafening. Jen led the cheer as John scrambled onto the stage. Again she grabbed his hand and held it up high. Asking the names of her two volunteers she realised they knew each other.

“Isn’t that nice,” she said to the audience. The crowd responded with a titter. The two fellas are blank-faced and tipsy.

Jen again announced the rules.

“Now, Rory and John, my brave, brave men,” she began. Neither Rory or John were listening. Both were marvelling at Jen’s wonderful figure and their good fortune to be so close to it. “This wonderful keg of beer, kindly donated by our sponsor, is yours if ye complete the simple task of…” She paused. After a short delay, someone switched on a drum-roll sound effect. Rory and John began to pay attention. The crowd went quiet.

“…kissing each other for 60 seconds!” Jen declared.

The colour drained from Rory’s face. John wanted to run but his legs were frozen with fear.

“Oh, fuck.” he replied quietly. Jen heard.

“Now, now, you don’t have to go that far,” she said laughing, “not on stage anyway.”

Nobody moved. Rory was desperately searching for an escape plan. After a dramatic silence Jen prodded them.

“Come on now lads, I hope you wont disappoint me…”