The Hibernia Strain

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“Emm… can I have a double cheese burger please.” The emotionless generic response of, “That’ll be just a minute. Would you like anything else?” leads me to shake my head, lean against the counter and wait as the assistant busies herself getting my order.

I scan around the hectic takeaway. It’s two AM, and all the nightclubs have emptied out. The swarms of wobbly legged, glazed-eyed party goers have thronged onto the streets and turned the many food joints into frantic, noisy auction houses. All pushing and shoving, cash in clumsy hands, trying to be the next to gargle their orders towards the staff.

I feel sorry for anyone who works the weekend nightshift in takeaways. It’s hard work and they tend to take a lot of abuse. It’s the same in all the towns and cities across Ireland on a weekend, and here tonight is no exception.

My eyes finally land on the screen of a security monitor nestled away in a corner behind the counter. Intended to be hidden from customers prying eyes; it’s at an acute enough angle for me to make out the display.

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