Freckles(17)

I take the four steps up to number eight. The steps have been cleaned and polished, restored, unlike all the others in the terrace which are uneven, chipped and broken over time. There’s not a sign of my mucusy slime from when he stepped on me, crushed me with his words. The Georgian door is black, shiny, with a grand gold knob and a large gold 8 above it. To the right-hand side there is just one buzzer along with the company name Cockadoodledoo Inc. I press it, step back and clear my throat.

It takes a while and as I consider leaving, the door is finally pulled open by a woman, probably my age, who, while tall, only fills a quarter of the height of the door. She looks like a miniature person, a doll in a doll’s house. I’m startled by a loud deep male cheer, as though a football team has scored a goal. She barely reacts and as soon as I realise the cheer was not at my expense, as far as I can tell anyway, I settle.

The sour-faced beauty stares out at me. Hiya, she says.

She’s long-legged, brunette with tight black jeans, ripped strategically at the thighs, high-heeled sandals, a check shirt, one half tucked into the waistline of her high-rise jeans, buttons open halfway, sleeves rolled up. A sexy meshy vest or bodysuit beneath. Effortlessly cool. Messily sexy. It’s all so crisp and clean. A lot of eyebrows on her face. Thick caterpillars, skilfully pruned and brushed. Hooped earrings. Big lips. Lots of lips. Skin so clear it’s almost not real. Not one blemish, not one freckle or hair. It looks as though it’s been scraped clean, a new packet of butter when the lid is peeled off, the ground after a fresh snow. The whites of her eyes so white, her eyes the kind of amber that reminds me of Pops’ cello bow resin. The new female species. Kendall Jenner’s body with Kylie Jenner’s face. Or wearing her make-up line at least.

Hello, I say, I’m a parking warden for Fingal County Council. I would like to speak with the owner of the yellow Ferrari.

I stand a little straighter than I usually would. I’m taller than her. I don’t know why that should make me feel better but it does. I look past her, down the long corridor, to where the shouting is coming from. It’s all greys and whites. Walls, cornicing, wooden panelling, like something out of an interiors magazine. A cat wanders down the hall towards us. Grey and white, as if it was dipped to match the interiors.

Rooster’s in a meeting, she says, bending down to pick up the cat, air kisses it so that her glossy lips don’t stick to the fluff. Her nails are the long pointy kind that could do some damage. Fake ones, painted a blush colour. There’s another cheer, from down the hall.

Rooster, I ask.

Rooster owns the Ferrari, she says.

I’m very disappointed. Not by the name. That’s a gift. What better name for the wanker owner of a tosspot car. I thought this would be the perfect opportunity to talk to him again. Come face to face with the fox. Ask him more about the five people, the hex, the curse he placed on me. What does it mean and why does it bother me so. But I shouldn’t waste the trip entirely.

I raise the manila envelope in the air.

I want to leave this for him, I tell her.

Yeah sure, what’s it about, she asks.

She struggles to keep the cat in her hands. Her pointy nails look like they’re going to pierce it and send it flying around the room. The cat frees itself and finally leaps out of her arms towards me. It lands on the doormat, then darts backwards away from me as if I’m the threat. Contrary fecker.

It’s in relation to his parking, I say. I noticed that he parks here every day and that he has a business. I pause. Is this a business, I ask.

She narrows her amber eyes. Well, yeah, of course.

I wanted to give him this paperwork, I say, handing the envelope to her. It’s an application for a special parking permit. The annual fee is six hundred euro, which can be paid at once or monthly. It means he’ll get a disc on the dashboard and he won’t have to worry about pay-and-display parking or fines.

I give her a small smile when I mention the fines but she doesn’t seem to get it. Any of it.

Hold on, she says, confused. Are you a sales person.

No, I sigh, I’m a parking warden. I say it slowly and clearly.

She looks me up and down, there’s another cheer from the back of the building, a final one, and the voices get louder as a group of young men file out of a room in the back and down the corridor. They all look similar. Jeans, trainers, T-shirts, caps, hair, facial hair. Moisturised and smelling good. What’s the collective noun for boy-banders. A bunch. A gaggle. A bouquet. A dazzle.

The parking angel sees me.

Shit, is it up, he asks, looking at a large-faced watch with a pink strap on his wrist.

Yes, I begin, but I’m—

Rooster’s in a meeting, he interrupts me. Has been for the past three hours so he can’t top it up. I asked you to do it, he looks at her.

I didn’t know, she shrugs. Anyway she’s, like, selling parking permits.

No, I’m—

Just take it from her, Parking Angel says, with a limp dismissive flick of his hand in my direction and disappears into the office, the one he watches out for me from the window like he’s on the night’s watch guarding the wall. Lads criss-cross the hall from one room to another, the cat, and a small dog too. They look at me, interested at first, then away again, uninterested. I give up.

Okay. Bye.

I turn around and walk down the steps. I should check the remainder of cars on the street but I can’t be bothered sticking around. They got lucky today. I feel hot around my eyes. I hear a snigger and the door closes. I decide to take an early lunch. That way Paddy can’t join me and I won’t have to talk about what happened, relive the episode.