A Galway Epiphany

The Epiphany of Fire

The security guard was old.

He’d applied for the job after he’d retired from the post office.

He never expected to actually get the job but... the wages!

The wages were shit to shinola, so he got the job.

His job was to guard an abandoned warehouse on the Newcastle Road.

His brief?

“Keep the homeless out.”

He did have a conscience, but, hey, if the government didn’t give a fuck, why should he? He had a chair, a radio, and a one-bar heater, plus a walkie-talkie without batteries. He’d asked the office for them and was told,

“Who are you expecting to call?”

So, no batteries.

His shift was from eight to eight, and he found those evenings were long.

To break up the monotony he’d walk the building, all two stories of it, twice; he walked it slowly, sweeping his torch across the bare floors, humming quietly to himself.

He saw some rats but rats didn’t spook him. You live as long as he had, vermin were a fact of life and simply avoided.

He got into a routine.

Tea and a sandwich at ten.

Listen to the news at twelve.

Walk the building at three and five.

Snooze freely.

He’d brought some books with him but found he couldn’t concentrate.

After a week of this, he filled his flask with Jameson, told himself,

1. Keeps me warm.

2. Gives me a little lift.

The second week was a lot more fun, wandering the floors, a little pissed; he felt good.

Thursday night, he was startled to hear movement on the floor above.

Muttered,

“Mighty big rat.”

(He wasn’t completely wrong.)

He’d just got comfortable, the heater on, thermal blanket wrapped snugly round him, the Jameson whispering happy thoughts.

“Fuck,”

He said.

He shucked the blanket off, got his torch, headed up.

On the second floor he saw the floor was wet.

“A leak?”

Then he was shocked by a wave of cold liquid thrown over him, turned, muttering,

“What the hell?”

He was soaked, saw a man in a dark track suit holding liter water bottles.

Then the smell. He lifted his arm, smelled the liquid, his heart pounding, and said,

“Petrol.”

The man, in shadow, let the bottles drop, took out a single long match, said,

“This is not a safety match.”

The old guard, frightened beyond belief, tried,

“What?”

The man, in a quiet reasonable tone, explained,

“It means you can strike it off a piece of wood.”

Paused.

Flicked the match against a beam,

Continued (with a hint of amusement),

“It should light instantly.”

But it didn’t.

The man shrugged, said,

“Nothing’s reliable, eh?”

Then asked,

“What’s your name?”

The man, scared shitless, managed,

“Sean.”

The man nodded as if this was of some import, asked,

“Would you describe yourself as lucky?”

Sean, despite his fear, snarled,

“Yeah, right, lucky, that’s me, my fucking cup overflowed.”

The man actually tut-tutted, reprimanded,

“Now no need for that language. Let’s keep a civil tone.”

He raised the match, asked,

“What do you say, Sean, want to go again?”