Only Eleven, imagine.

Only Eleven, imagine.

The flashing blue light of the police car parked outside Number 2,
Mandeville Terrace gave a clue that something out of the ordinary was
taking place. The two Gardai eventually had to break in the front door
and hadn't yet re-appeared. By this time a small crowd of curious
onlookers had gathered on the footpath outside the shabby council
house. The front garden patch hadn't been mown for some time and was
filled with clutter. An overflowing bin and peeling window frames gave
the little house a rather forlorn appearance.

The screeching siren added a further touch of drama as an Ambulance
braked to a halt, scattering rainwater in all directions. The buzz of
excitement amongst the onlookers was contagious. It was a bitterly cold
night. The light from the Public Gas-lamps cast shadows on the
glistening cobbled street. It had been raining non-stop all day.
"What's goin' on Missus?" enquired one small man, his raincoat wrapped
closely around him. "Dunno. We think somebody's been murdered" came the
hopeful reply.

Somebody else swore it might be a robbery. Others declared knowingly
that it was a domestic row. "I heard they're always at it, hammer and
tongs" proclaimed the little lady from the corner shop. Mandeville
Terrace, and number two in particular, had a colourful reputation
locally. One neighbour, her hair done up in rollers, emerged from the
adjoining house and trumpeted dramatically that John Joe was on the
piss again and had broken up the house. "It wouldn't be for the first
time" she announced triumphantly.

"We had to ring the Gardai" she told those around her in outraged
tones. "He would ha' killed her otherwise. She's had a terrible
life".

The ambulance men, the big one carrying a stretcher and the smaller man
clutching what looked like oxygen equipment pushed their way towards
the front door.

"Stand back ye eedjits" said the bigger one. Nobody but a Dubliner
could sound so indignant. "Can't you see it's an emergency?" They
disappeared through the doorway leaving nobody any the wiser.

It was some time before the front door re-opened. By this time the
crowd had swelled to several dozen. The reporter from the Mandeville
News, his two cameras slung around his neck, was busily interviewing
the lady in rollers.
"He's not a bad sort" she was saying excitedly, "but the very divil
when he's jarred?." She broke off as the ambulance men emerged,
carefully inching the stretcher through the crowd. One held an oxygen
mask to the face of the small figure lying prone under the red
blankets.

"Oh, look at her, the poor thing" said one tall woman in an anguished
voice, "she's covered in blood and bruises". The ambulance dashed off
into the night its siren getting fainter in the distance as it headed
away towards the city centre.

More commotion at the front door. This time it was the man of the house
who emerged. His stained shirtfront was unbuttoned almost down to his
waist. "Janey mac" smaned one worthy, "he smells like Guinness's
brewery". John Joe seemed dwarfed by the two burly Guards who jostled
him through the crowd. The handcuffs were unnecessary. He looked
subdued. Whatever fight was in him was long gone.

Just as he was being squeezed into the rear seat, he looked up and
waved at the solitary figure of the little girl peering down from the
first floor window. "I'll be back tomorrow Jenny" he shouted as he
disappeared into the darkness of the car. "I'll be back tomorrow for
sure".

"Ah sure, she was mad about him" the lady in rollers said sadly. "They
both were, you know. He was a lovely man when he didn't have the drink
taken. It's her birthday tomorrow, the poor craythur. She's the only
one, and only eleven imagine????."
THE END