Freckles(64)

Suddenly a siren sounds, as she’s issued a parking ticket. Jazz’s avatar takes off in the direction of the target on the map, to the parking warden whose features come into view. The warden is female, she’s dressed exactly as I am now. She has a nasty face, twisted in a scowl like a witch, a long nose and chin, all elongated bony features. It would scare children.

And freckles.

Look at this, Jazz laughs, and suddenly her avatar lashes out and punches the parking warden.

The warden’s hat flies off and blood gushes from her face, flying into the air in a big red spray. The avatar high-kicks, gets her right in the stomach, and she doubles over, blood dripping from her mouth. The warden’s equipment falls to the ground, the avatar picks it up, throws it at the warden’s head. More blood and sprays, so that the warden’s face is like a bruised plum. Then the avatar stomps on the equipment, stomp, crunch, smash. The warden starts to run away, tickets and papers flying around her like confetti. The screen vibrates with Warden Wipeout thumping high-paced music and the avatar – let’s be honest, it’s Jazz – continues her attack. Thumps, kicks, headlocks. The warden doesn’t fight back, but she makes sounds. Yelps, oomphs and uhhs. Pained sounds with a horrified expression beneath the bloodied and bruised face. Then Jazz picks up a pay-and-display parking meter, uproots it from the concrete, and whacks it across the warden’s head. The head flies off, blood sprays from her open neck, the headless body wobbles drunkenly around in circles on the pavement for a moment before collapsing in a heap on the ground, the head rolls.

I’m not a sensitive creature, usually, I can tell the difference between a game and reality, but this is a new kind of nasty. It’s Jazz’s cruelty that hurts the most. I feel every one of her jabs and kicks. I knew she was casting a web, I saw it coming and crawled straight into it anyway. The psychological mindfuck of it all, the way she sits there now, knowing she is intentionally hurting me, and is enjoying it, makes it impossible to pretend that I’m not.

So there it is, she says, placing down the controls. Inspired by you. Rooster’s particularly proud of this one. He thinks this is the one he can launch out into the world.

I don’t know if she’s expecting a comeback, an argument or a physical fight, but she’s not getting it from me. I feel winded.

Okay, I say, finally finding my voice. I get it, Jazz.

I stand up, place the mobile phone and credit card down on the coffee table, account set up, parking app downloaded. My work here is done. And I leave. Just like that. I pass Tony’s office, raised voices drifting through the wall, and I let myself out. I hold back the tears as I walk down the stairs, along the terrace and down the steps to the road where I’m hidden from view of number eight. The humiliation of it. The hurt. I could cry right there, but I don’t. I don’t stop moving and then the need to cry disappears and the anger comes. Not at Jazz so much. But at Tristan. He is exactly who I thought he was in the first place. The Prada-wearing wanker who drives the yellow Ferrari. The man whose insult about my character and private life was death by a thousand cuts. Who set me on a path of further destruction, trying and failing to find friends. To find me. To make me the best me I could be so that I’d be good enough to meet my mam.

I march on, ignoring the cars I pass by, not really sure where I’m going but driven by anger to just move. I near Casanova salon and see a strange car parked outside where the silver Mercedes should be. This angers me further, the fucking nerve of a stranger taking Carmencita’s parking space. How could she let this happen. Was she late this morning and missed her spot and if so, why was she late, did she have to park elsewhere and did she mind. Was it a bad start to her day. Did it bother her. Did it ruin her morning. Do I need to step in and defend her. Did she show up to work today, is everything okay at home, did she crash, did she move house, is she gone again before I even got to say hello.

This final thought angers me. I’m hungry, I’m weak, I’m hurt, she can’t leave me again, not until I get the time I deserve with her. Heavy-breathing, overthinking, angry, frustrated, hurt, hungry, weak, humiliated, I could yell and scream and shout right here right now. I want to kick the car, do a Britney, whack it with an umbrella, pull the wing mirrors off. This fancy SUV. I look around for her BMW but there’s no sign of it. I pace up and down the pathway. The Range Rover has taken over her spot. It will have to be punished in some way. I’ll find a way. I examine the windscreen. There’s no parking ticket. Ha! gotcha. Hold on, it has a business parking permit, though. I see it is registered to Carmencita Casanova. The jeep is hers. I look at the insurance disc and motor tax for more information.

I look inside the salon. She’s in there. I’m relieved that she’s safe, there’s still time, I haven’t lost her. But I also haven’t lost my anger. It was directed at the vehicle and now because it’s her vehicle, the anger naturally transfers to her. She’s shaken me. She could so easily have just upped and left again and I’d never know and never find her.

She sticks a poster to the window. Women in business. A gathering of women in local business, a discussion and celebration. Hosted by the president of the Malahide Chamber of Commerce Carmencita Casanova. A drinks reception in St Sylvester’s GAA hall, 8 p.m. on 24 June. Tickets €6. She’s very proud of it, I can tell. She’s removing it from the window again, getting the levels just right, she doesn’t want it to be slanted or crooked. Her big night. Too much to the left, too much to the right, bit more to the right, yes, she commits, presses the double-sided sticky taped corners to the window. So happy with herself and her life.