Chapter 3:

Violence from my mother, slaps in the face, etc., had stopped when I was about fourteen. I remember her shouting at me while she was hoovering. I told her I couldn't hear her with the noise of the Hoover, so she moved to hit me with the part you hold. I turned and she got me in the back. It didn't hurt in the slightest, but the Hoover was now broken, and when she saw me laughing she must have realised she couldn't physically hurt me anymore. I don't remember her ever trying to hit me again after that. Let us have a silent prayer for the Hoover who sacrificed himself to bring forth a change in my life.

I spent an awful lot of time in the Donaghmede Inn — that was my father's favourite pub, or closest pub, or whatever you want to call it: his local. Sunday mornings with the pitch-and-putt club were sometimes fun because I was allowed to play. I say that because it was an adults’ club and I was the only child there. Afternoons and evenings had a different crowd, all friends of my father's; all knew me.

One of these people was the production manager at a local printing company. My father arranged an apprenticeship for me, so I became a bookbinder. It was fine; I got bored quickly. The starting-work ‘honeymoon’ period didn’t last long. Once I knew the machines there was only payday. I served my time and lasted about two, maybe three, years before I was let go over my timekeeping.

Now I'm in St John’s Ambulance and I have an apprenticeship — you would think that's enough to keep a lad busy, but not me. I would get paid in Woodprint Craft on a Friday before lunchtime, I think around 11 a.m. One of the guys from accounts would walk around with all the brown envelopes with people's names on them, handing them out.

A clear routine emerged. Get paid; go to the Friday night meeting of St John’s Ambulance in Edenmore Scout Den; afterwards, the Concorde pub — get drunk. Saturday night: go into town — get drunk. Sunday: if any money remained — you guessed it, get drunk. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday: work; frequent screaming and shouting in the house, but easier to handle with my friend alcohol.

When I was first in St John’s Ambulance, that gave me a great reprieve from home life. It was kind of like I found a family of sorts. I started to hang around with a few of the lads. It wasn't long before we were heading into the Liffey Bar in Dublin city centre. A few of the other divisions around Dublin had members who came and met us there, so it was a little meeting place for us. The divisions would mix on some of the bigger duties — concerts and big football games — so we'd all get to know each other.

The real trouble for me started when I had a paying job. Even though it wasn't much money, after giving my mother almost half, I still had enough to get drunk regularly.

This eventually led to me being asked to leave St. John’s Ambulance, or being suspended, over an argument I had with somebody else in the St. John’s Ambulance on duty at the Mansion House for the People in Need telethon.

We were given meal vouchers and drinks vouchers — if I remember correctly, it was a meal voucher with three tear-off drinks vouchers. Everyone was delighted. Next thing I know, one of the security guards comes up to me and hands me a pile of the drinks vouchers. Happy days! I shared them out with the rest of the guys, but there were still loads. There was no possible way a 17- or 18-year-old lad was going to get through these drinks vouchers, but it wasn't going to be for lack of effort. I lashed into the bar.

At the following Friday’s meeting in the Scout Den I was called into a meeting by my Superintendent and was told I was being suspended. I came back once, after I’d been in the pub, so that didn’t really work out, and I never went back again.

Another friend of mine was in the Civil Defence, the auxiliary fire service. I promptly joined that. It was fun, but it only really involved training. You never really got to go anywhere or do anything in the public eye. Everybody still went to the pub after a meeting, so that suited me fine. One of the best days I had with them was going out training — being a patient while Dublin Fire Brigade and the Airport Fire Brigade practised together, Gardaí involved also.

I didn't know much about it at the time and I still don't today, but it was some sort of exercise day they did once a year, and the Civil Defence was brought along to act as casualties. They had this big container, like something off the back of a forty-foot truck, and they propped it up on two walls that were probably six or eight feet high so the container sat up there and acted as the fuselage of a plane. They had to take everybody out with whatever injuries they'd been designated.

I think I got really lucky on that day, because I was a dead body thrown from the fuselage, so I was lying on the grass watching everything happen.

As I was lying there, a Garda came up to me and had to put a tag on me as a dead body. He asked me my name and I told him I couldn’t tell him because I was dead, and burst out laughing. Needless to say, he didn’t comment and just moved on.

Next thing I know, an old train engine nearby suddenly burst into flames in a big way. Two seconds later Dublin Fire Brigade came around the corner, jumped out of the fire tenders, and put the fire out in what looked like seconds. Very impressive. Dublin Fire Brigade got out of the way and they set the train engine on fire again. A few seconds later the Airport fire tenders started to pull up, but before they’d even stopped they already had the fire out. Seriously impressive. The cannons fired foam from on top of the tenders before they had even stopped moving, and the fire was out before anybody actually got out of the vehicle.

By the time I was 20 I was gone from this organisation too. I don't remember exactly when I left, but I'm sure it wasn't a case of leaving — I just didn't go back because I was busy drinking. By my third or fourth year I would have been earning more — drinking vouchers — or at least that's all money was to me.

A friend was celebrating his 21st — So me, Trevor, and a couple of his friends ended up in a late club on Leeson Street. This was a late-night bar. I don’t think it even opened until 1:00 AM. They didn’t have a cover charge, but they only had wine, and it was expensive. A bottle started probably at £15 or £20.There was nothing unusual about that night. I got drunk, kept everyone entertained, and ended up legless.

At some point in the night I got up from the table with an empty bottle of wine in my hand that I was going to bring to the bar to get a new one. My foot got stuck underneath the table somehow and I lost my balance. As I fell, I put my hands up to protect myself, completely forgetting there was a bottle in my hand.

The bar had pillars around the place with full-length mirrors on them. I fell against a pillar and smashed the mirror with the bottle. By some miracle, with glass falling around me, I regained my composure without a scratch and went out to tell the bouncer what had happened. I told him I was going to go home, gave him some ID, and said I'd come back the next day and pay for the mirror. He told me to hurry up and get out before the owner got in — nobody would know who had broken the mirror then and insurance would cover it anyway.

I thanked him, and as I attempted to leave, the owner walked down the stairs pointing at me and asking me repeatedly, “Why did you break the mirror? Why did you break the mirror? Why did you break the mirror?”

Now, bearing in mind I'm very drunk and have already explained what happened — and have already given ID and offered to pay for the mirror — I seemed to be having great difficulty communicating with this man as he wouldn't stop asking, “Why did you break the mirror?”

Next thing I know, he tells me he's called the police and they are on their way. No sooner had he finished saying this than a Garda started walking down the stairs. He brought me upstairs and put me in the back of a car, said he'd be back shortly. There was another Garda in the front who asked me what happened. I told him everything up to this point, including handing over ID. He asked me if I smoked and offered me a cigarette. He then told me that what happened would be alright and to wait for his colleague to come back. When that Garda returned, he had my ID in his hand and told me not to worry.

Now, that is easier said than done when you are used to having to have instant answers — and will have to have instant answers if and when your father finds out. The guards brought me to their station and gave me a summons for court the next morning at 10:30 a.m., but stressed again that I didn't have to worry. This man was going to insist I was prosecuted; this is what he does anytime there is any kind of incident at his place of business. The Garda assured me he would explain to the judge that it was an accident and that I was willing to pay for the mirror.

I got home to my adopted parents’ house at whatever time after being released and went to bed. I awoke the next morning unable to remember what had happened the night before but with an overwhelming feeling of dread. I checked my pockets and found the summons for court. It's now after 11:00 a.m. — panic stations. I had no idea what to do. So I did nothing. For three days I lived in constant fear. Every time I saw a Garda car I thought they were coming after me. I was genuinely terrified, and I wasn't sure if I was more terrified of the Gardaí or my father finding out about this. I actually wondered if prison would be better than home.

That seems so ridiculous now — being afraid of what my father would think, or realising that most of my fear, fear of everythig, was created by him. On the third day, which would have been a Wednesday as far as I can remember, the phone rang. I answered, and it was the Garda. He said, “I assume your parents know nothing about any of this?” I told him no, they didn't. He told me I had 15 minutes to get over to the phone box in Donaghmede and to ring him back on the number he gave me. He warned me not to mess him around — this was the only chance he was giving me.

I rang him back in less than 10 minutes. He asked me what happened — why I didn't turn up. All I could do was babble about how I didn't wake up until after 11 and I just didn't know what to do. He asked why I didn't phone him. I told him it never occurred to me. He proceeded to tell me that he had gotten the judge to put the court date off for another date because he reckoned I hadn't stayed away on purpose and he was willing to give me a chance. He warned me to make sure I was in court the next day or I would be in very serious trouble. Of course I immediately swore blind that I would be there early, never mind on time.

The court date came and the judge gave me a certain amount of time to give the money to the Garda. £450 was the value of the window. So I went into the Garda station once a week with the agreed amount — I think it was £20 at the time — so it went on for quite a while. When I finally finished paying, he told me there was no need to go back to court. I was working — an apprentice bookbinder at the time — so he said there was no need to take any more time off work. He would tell the judge, and I should get on with my life.

This I agreed to, very happily. I was delighted I didn't have to go back to court. I just got on with life for a few months, at least until the Garda contacted me again.

Can you imagine the terror when I answered the phone at my adopted mother's house to hear his voice at the other end again? “What the hell is wrong now?” was all I could think. He asked me how I was and told me not to worry — there was nothing wrong. Could I come in and see him one evening this week? He was on evenings all week. I said I'd get the bus into town after work tomorrow and come up to him. He said that was perfect and not to worry, and that when I got to the Garda station I should tell them who I was and that I was looking for him; they'd let him know if he was out in the car and he'd come back.

So I'm sitting there for about 10 minutes waiting for him after this conversation with the Garda at the counter, when he arrives in. He shakes my hand and asks me again, how am I? I tell him I'm grand but I'm a bit worried about what's going on. He chuckled and said there's nothing going on — don't worry. “The reason I asked you to come in is because, when you finished giving me the money to replace that mirror, I went back to the nightclub owner to give him the money, but he had redecorated. I asked him to produce a receipt to show he had replaced the mirror at the time. He could not. So I told him if he could not produce a receipt he was not getting the money. So, Steven, here is your money back.”

On another one of these Friday nights, down in the cellar bar of a haunt, drinking and joking and just having fun — making everybody laugh — that’s all I wanted to do, and drink of course, the magical juice. On this particular occasion two lads asked could they join us and of course I said why not. Everyone agreed and the craic continued; everyone was having great fun.

The two lads who joined us — one was from Northern Ireland, Bessbrook (I believe it's a Quaker town not far from Newry). His friend, from the UK, Ian, was in love, chasing the girl who had left him to come back to Ireland. I don't know if Ian ever won her back, but I hope he did because he was a nice lad.

They invited me back to their hotel for a nightcap and just to continue drinking, really.Stayed up all night and we had a great laugh. The next day Ian was heading to Roscommon after his young lady. We wished him well. He wasn't sure when he'd see us again or John, but he hoped to get up North to see John's family and friends again. It depended on how it went with his girlfriend when he met her; worst-case scenario, he would see John back in Dublin Airport in three days’ time. John invited me up to Bessbrook, as he said there would be a party at his mother's house and it would be great craic.

So we jumped on a train and headed up North, drinking all the way. We got a taxi from the station to the house, where I immediately lay on the floor under the stairs. A few hours later I woke up with a blanket over me and a pillow under my head. There was a party in full swing around me, so I jumped up and immediately started drinking. I got straight into the swing of things — introducing myself, telling jokes, having a laugh.

I met a couple at this party, Carrie and Sean. They were from opposite sides of the divide — one Catholic, one Protestant. I don't remember which was which, but what does that matter. At 3 or 4 a.m., somewhere in there, Carrie decided it was time to go home. I’d been for a walk with John around Sean’s house earlier that day, so I knew where it was. Sean came to me and asked if I remembered the way. He said if I called in for him in about two hours his wife would let him out again. This was hilarious to me — and how could I refuse? The party continued; I kept an eye on the watch. At about 5:45 in the morning I decided to head around to Sean.

Now, the housing estates were very similar to Bayside, on your way to Howth in Dublin — full of lanes and really complicated to get around if you don't know where you're going. Add to this the drizzle; I'm well oiled; I've about a six-minute walk ahead of me; and I brought six cans, plus an open one for the journey. What the hell I was thinking is beyond my comprehension now, but it seemed like a good idea at the time.

So picture this: I've got one of those padded lumberjack shirts on, with a can of beer in each breast pocket; a four-pack in my right hand; an open can in my left; and a fag hanging out of my mouth. I'm moving at pace — not really running but not quite walking — trying to get to Sean’s house fast. I turn a corner down a laneway and — bang!

I ran straight into a squad of British soldiers on patrol. I went flying one way and one of them went flying another. In the commotion, with beer spilling and cans flying, I was getting up, apologising, and I had to stop myself all of a sudden as I was going to pick his rifle up for him. I froze, bent over, and said, “I think I'll let you pick that up yourself,” then started laughing.

I asked was he OK. “I'm really sorry about that — I was rushing and didn’t see you around the corner until it was too late,” I explained, before asking was I in trouble over the beer. I was under the impression I was breaking the law, but the soldiers did not care about the beer.

One of them asked who I was, where I was coming from, and where I was going. I told him I was coming from John's house. He asked me who John was and what his address was. I told him I didn't know John's surname or his address and just pointed over the houses in the general direction of where the house was and said he lives over there. He asked me where I was going and I told him Sean’s house. He asked me for Sean’s address and surname. I told him I didn't know and pointed in the general direction of where I was going.

They just looked at each other, then at me, then everyone laughed and he told me to fuck off. Later that morning I was with John, Ken, and a few other lads heading for the bus stop to go to Newry for a few beers. I was slightly ahead of everyone when I saw the British soldiers again. They smiled and waved at me — until they saw the lads with me. The lads noticed them also. All of a sudden everyone was moving but it was silent. The tension was palpable; I've never felt anything like that in my life.

The next morning, one of John's friends drove me back to Dublin. I can't remember the name of the place right now, but it's at the end of the Malahide Road on the left-hand side. I never heard from these people again and life continued as usual. I was sharing a house on the Malahide Road at this time. This would have been the third house I lived in since I moved out of home, if that's what you'd call it.