There’d nearly been a fight. People were drinking wine like it was beer and a man Sam didn’t know had thumped the table and shouted that “House of Cards” was better than “Breaking Bad” and “Mad Men,” put together.

Photograph by Grant Cornett

—All the seasons!

The man had knocked over a glass.

A woman had thrown a fistload of peanuts at him, although most of them had bounced off the table. She seemed to be defending “Mad Men” or “Breaking Bad.” Sam wasn’t sure. He hadn’t seen either. His wife, Emer, had been in the middle of it, too, standing up for “The Killing,” the Danish version. Sam hadn’t seen “The Killing,” and he hadn’t a clue how Emer had managed it.

They’d walked home, staggering a bit.

—When did you watch “The Killing”?

—I didn’t.

—It seemed like you did.

—Yeah, well, I didn’t. But, like, everyone says it’s brilliant.

He’d watched it since. Seasons 1, 2, and 3. And it was brilliant. He’d watched “The Bridge,” too. And “Love/Hate,” all four seasons. And a good chunk of “The Wire.” They were all great.

But he’d felt late getting to them. Too late, and too slow. He knew that, if the same people were to meet around a table now, they’d be getting worked up about a whole new bunch of box sets, or something new on Netflix, and he’d be lost again.

He’d watched “The Killing” alone, while Emer was at work. He’d watched most of Season 1 in a day. It was mesmerizing. He’d been going to buy Emer one of the striped jumpers the detective, Sarah Lund, wore. But he’d done a search—three hundred and ten euros, for a genuine one from the Faroe Islands. There was no way he was spending that kind of money, not now.

He didn’t have a job. That still felt like a smack, three months later. Just when they’d both begun to think they’d survived the worst of it, when they were starting to hear and believe the optimism on the radio—We’re seeing light at the end of the tunnel. This is great news for Ireland Inc.—he’d been called in for a chat.

He’d started sending out the C.V.s the day after he came home jobless. He’d signed up with an agency. He’d even ticked the box that let them know he was prepared to go to the U.K., Australia, or Canada. It would be temporary. It could be exciting. He hadn’t hesitated.

But nothing.

He was too slow, again. Too late. One of the banks was advertising mortgages for people who were thinking of coming back home to Ireland from the U.K., Australia, and Canada.

They’d be fine. Emer said it, and they said it together.

They touched glasses and smiled. They’d tighten the belts, just a bit. They’d renegotiate the mortgage, but only when they had to. They’d stretch the six remaining years to twelve, or fifteen.

—We’ll drink less.

—No way.

They laughed. She patted the dog on her lap.

—And we’ll feed you a bit less, Chester, she said. Cos you’re a fat little fucker, aren’t you.

He wasn’t fat—the dog. Neither was Sam.

Just when they’d thought they were safe. They weren’t alone in thinking that. The recipe books were a sign of the shift. Whenever they went to people’s houses—and they did it a lot, on Friday and Saturday evenings, the homes of people Emer knew from work or old friends she’d kept in touch with—they were given food that was supposedly eaten on the streets of cities that Sam associated with bombings or destitution. Beirut street food, Mumbai street food. Jerusalem was the latest—Ottolenghi. The recipe book was always on the kitchen counter, and they’d have to hear the tale of the hunt for the ingredients before they were allowed to eat.

Not that he objected to the food. He cooked a bit himself. Dublin street food, and the odd Mexican or Far Eastern dish. But, anyway, that was the start of the country’s comeback, he’d thought. And Emer had agreed with him. The street-food books—the money to buy them and the money to use them, the tiny bit of ostentation. The books on the counter, and the box sets piled beside the telly. One night, he’d even made up a story about a couple on the Southside who’d served up barbecued fox—medieval street food. He’d added a joust in the back garden and an outbreak of cholera before everyone around the table realized that he was joking.

That was the last time he’d been funny.

Something had snapped, or sagged, a few weeks after he was let go. Someone sitting beside him at a different dinner, someone else he didn’t know, had asked him what he did and he hadn’t been able to answer. Not a word.

The next time Emer had told him they were going to someone’s house on a Friday he’d said no.


“Give me a minute—I’m working on my core.”

She hadn’t looked at him yet. She was just in from work, concentrating on the dog.

—I’d prefer not to, Sam said.

He hated the sound of that, the voice and the words, the pompous little boy. But he’d said it.

—Why not? she asked.

She was sitting on the kitchen floor, shoving the dog across the tiles and enjoying his return. She looked up at Sam.

—Ah, Sam said. I don’t . . . I just . . .


—Why is it always your decision?

—Hang on, she said. What?

She was standing now, taking her coat off.

—What did you say? she asked. I mean, what do you mean?

She smiled.

—Well, he said. Why is it like that?

—Sorry—like what?

—You come home and announce we’re going to Fifi’s house—


—Grand. Sorry. But you never ask.

—Ask what?

—If, like. If I want to go—or if we should go.

—What’s wrong?

—Nothing’s wrong.

—There’s something wrong.

—There isn’t.

—Is it the job?

—No, it’s not the fuckin’ job.



—Just stop it.

—Stop what?

—Ah, Sam, she said. Listen.

She was moving again, across the kitchen. She was brilliant at this, making normality out of the tension. She put the kettle under the tap.

—Sam, she said.

—Don’t patronize me, Sam said.

—I’m talking to you.


—I know what you’re going through. Don’t say anything. I know it must be terrible—O.K.? But you’ll get another job, wait and see. You’re highly skilled.

He let her go on.

—This is temporary, she said.

She tossed a tea bag into a mug.

—Agreed? Sam?

—O.K., he said.

—You think that, too, I know. You know. It’s temporary.

—Yeah, he said.

—So, she said. We keep on going. Business as usual.

She was working the top off the moka pot now, making him coffee. He didn’t drink tea.

—I suppose so, he said. But it’s been three months.

—That’s nothing, she said. We’ve both heard about people who were waiting for years.

But it wasn’t about the job, or any job, or how he’d spend the time.

—It’s just, like . . .

—What? she said.

She smiled. It amazed him, how she managed that. It never looked frozen or insincere. She loved him. Her tea was in her hands, his coffee was on the gas.

—All these invitations, he said.

—They’re not invitations, she said back. It’s not formal. They’re, like, just, people—friends.

—Yeah, but your friends. I know no one.

—You do.

—Not really.

—Come on, Sam. They’re our friends.

—Some of them, he said.

—Is that not enough?

The pot was bubbling. He took a mug from the shelf. He took the pot off the gas.

—Thanks, he said.

—No worries.

He sipped the coffee, and gave her the thumbs-up.

—Why don’t you volunteer? she said.


—Do stuff, she said. You know. Meet people.


—Stop it, Sam. You know what people are. Everybody’s volunteering these days.

—I don’t want to fuckin’ volunteer, he said.

—Why not? What’s wrong? I’m worried about you, Sam. Really, I am.

He said nothing—he couldn’t think of anything. He didn’t want the coffee; he could feel it burning his gut.

—It’ll give a shape to your day, she said. Sam?

—Listen, he said. Emer.

—Go on.

She looked so eager there, so ready to help.

He threw the mug.

He walked ahead as the dog ran back for the ball. He walked into the wind and the bit of rain. It wasn’t dark yet. The sun was a lump sinking behind the city.

He’d apologized to Emer, and said he’d bring the dog for a walk, get some air. He couldn’t look at her. He’d found the dog’s ball and lead in the drawer under the sink, and he’d left. He’d called bye from the front door but she hadn’t answered.

The dog was back. He dropped the ball in front of Sam.

—Good man.

It bounced, and rolled off the path onto the grass. Sam moved to pick it up.

And it happened.

A guy on a bike went into him. But Sam didn’t know that.

All he knew was the pain.

He was on the ground by the time what had happened began to assemble itself. He saw the bike, and the guy sprawled on the path a bit farther away. He heard a noise he didn’t recognize. It took him a while to know that he was making it. Grunting, blowing, pushing back the pain. He could hear the skid now, the sound of the guy pulling the brake. He heard the guy’s protest.

—Get out of the way!

Now he heard the guy groaning, and a wave hitting the other side of the seawall. He heard himself. Breathing like he’d been running for hours, shoving the air out. Bellowing. He didn’t know if he could move.

There was no one else around. Normally, this time of day, there’d be other people walking their dogs, or running, or even the homeless lads looking for somewhere to hide for the night. But there was no one.

“The crime scene down the hall has crap vermouth.”

He moved a leg—he could. He rolled to his side. He lifted himself. Jesus, though, God. Jesus, the pain. He kept going. He felt huge. He stood up out of the wet and the injustice; that was how he felt, was how he saw himself. Made monstrous.

The guy was sitting, rolling his shoulder, bleeding from his mouth. Sam roared over to the bike. That was what it was, what it felt like. Roaring, not walking. He was noise. He got across to the bike. He picked it up—it had no weight—and he threw it over the low wall, into the sea. He didn’t look at the guy. The Lycra fucker. He said nothing to him and he heard nothing.

Anger got him home. Blind fury got him home. He shouldn’t have been able to do it. It was usually a ten-minute walk. He didn’t know how long it took. He’d no memory of it, after. He got back up the hill. To the house. He met no one.

He got to the gate, and the door. He fell into the hall. He lay there. The pain was new—the shock was outrageous. The charge home had been an interruption. He fell to the rug and it started all over again.

Emer was there.

So was her case. Right at his head, where he’d landed. She pushed it, wheeled it, out of their way. But it was there, behind her as she got down on her knees beside him.

—What happened?

He roared again now. There was a ceiling over him. The front door was closed.


He roared once more.

—What happened to you?

—The dog.

She looked for bite marks. She searched him for blood.

—I left the dog.

It made no sense. What he’d said to Emer. He knew that.

She was wearing her coat.

—The dog, he said again.

The words hurt. Just speaking. They were followed by a groan, a yelp.

—I’ll find him, she said.

She understood. But she stayed where she was. She put her hands on his chest.

—What happened?

—He went right into my back.

—The dog?

He was afraid to gasp properly. The effort shook his ribs. They were broken. They had to be.

—Bike, he said. Prick on a bike.


—He went right into me.


—Sorry, he said.

The anger was gone and the real pain was climbing out of him.

—Can you move your legs? Emer asked.

—Think so.

He didn’t remind her that he’d just walked up from the seafront. He’d do whatever she told him to.

—O.K., she said. Carefully. Move your left leg. Lift it.

He did.

—Slowly, she said. That’s great. Down, slowly. Now the right.

—The dog.

—He’ll be grand. O.K. Your spine’s not broken anyway.


He was breathing through his mouth. He couldn’t close it.

—Lift your arm.

He lifted his right hand. She held it, helped him. The pain. Something was ripping, already ripped.

—Oh Jesus, oh Jesus!

She brought his hand back down to the rug.

—The other one. Sam?


—Your other hand.

It was bad, bad—but not as bad.

—Good, she said. Can you lie on your side?

She got him to bed. She held his elbow and stayed a step below him on the stairs. She had to cut his jumper off him; he couldn’t lift his arms. She stood behind him with the scissors. She sliced from the bottom up, to his neck. She came back around and pulled the sleeves off his arms. She watched as he lowered himself onto the bed. He groaned, he puffed—he couldn’t lie back. She got pillows from elsewhere, and came back.

She piled them until he could sit and let go.


He was alone. She’d gone. He heard her on the stairs. He heard the bell. He heard the front door—she was opening it. He heard a voice, a man’s. A taxi-driver? It wasn’t a conversation—it was too short. The door closed. He heard her boots on the path outside. He couldn’t hear the wheels of her case.

He couldn’t move. He could, but it was awful. More minutes of gasping. He didn’t know what to do. He was stuck and the house was empty. He’d never sleep.

She woke him. It was dark.


She was still wearing her coat. She’d been out in the cold; he could smell it.


He hadn’t moved. He was still sitting back, against all of the house’s pillows.

—I found Chester, she said.


Talking, that one word, rubbed against the pain. He sucked in.

—All right?

—Yeah, he said. Where was he?

—Down where you left him.


—He was fine.


—There was no sign of the cyclist.


—Or the bike.

He said nothing.

She was gone again.

He woke. She wasn’t in the bed. It was still dark. He’d no idea what time it was. He couldn’t read his watch and he couldn’t move, shift, to see the clock on the table just behind his head.

He’d been so angry when he left the house. He’d dragged the anger down the street with the dog, and along the seafront. He’d left behind a smashed mug and a crying woman.

“Nice—what do you charge?”

—I’m leaving, she’d said while he was putting the lead on the dog.

He’d thrown the mug at the wall, above the cooker.

—Don’t let me stop you, he’d said, looking at the dog’s neck.

He was an idiot.

Emer was right; they’d be fine. They’d have to be—he’d have to be.

He could hear nothing in the house.

He had to go to the toilet. He had to move. He turned, kind of rolled to his right. He pulled back the yell, sucked it back down. He didn’t want to hear it. He sent his feet out. The right one touched the floor. He rolled again. He was off the bed, on his knees—a little kid saying his prayers. He straightened his back. Christ, Jesus. He stood up.

He walked out to the landing. He leaned on the wall, and the door frame. Across to the bathroom. He had to bend to lift the seat. Christ, Christ. He pissed, he flushed. Back out to the landing. He could hear nothing else, just himself, just his breath. She might have been in one of the other bedrooms. He went back across to their room.

He stopped. He turned—the change of direction stabbed him. He went for the stairs. The drop to the hall looked deep and dark. Each step was agony. No, sore. Just sore. Very sore.

He made it to the bottom. Her case was gone, not in the hall. He got to the kitchen. There was sweat on his forehead, drenching his hair. He went to the sink. He took the dirty dishes and mugs out of the basin. He let the hot tap run, and squirted some washing-up liquid into the water. He dropped in a cloth. He turned off the tap. He lifted the basin—he gave it a go. Down his right side, pain carved a road. He put the basin back in the sink. He leaned against it, got his breath back. That was probably as bad as it was going to get. He hoisted the basin and took it the few steps over to the cooker. The broken mug was still there. It hadn’t really smashed. It was broken, but only in two halves, along an old crack. He wrung out the cloth and leaned over the cooker, to get at the coffee stains. But he stopped well short of the wall. The pain pulled him back.

He found the steps beside the back door. The dog was out in the shed. Unless Emer had taken him. If she wasn’t in the house. He was tempted to go out there to check. But he didn’t. The steps weren’t heavy, just awkward. He couldn’t lift them properly. They whacked at his shins as he took them over to the cooker. The sweat was in his eyes now. It was cold, too; he was freezing. He looked at the wall clock. It was just after three. He unfolded the steps. He waited a while. He wiped the sweat from his eyes and forehead, back into his hair. He grabbed the cloth and got onto the first step. And the next one. The third. He kept his back straight. He could feel the ceiling just over his head. He kneeled on the cooker, on the grille on top of the gas rings. It was a different pain, a normal, stupid pain; he’d take the punishment. He leaned on the wall with his left hand. The road of pain had split in two, the new one curving under the bottom rib across his right side. He’d never be able to get back down. She’d find him like this in the morning. And they’d laugh.

They’d be fine; it wouldn’t be too bad. The future measured in box sets. “The Killing”—he’d watch it again, with her. “The Bridge,” “Borgen.” The Danish ones, all the seasons. There was a year in them, at least. He was already picking up a bit of Danish from watching the first season of “Borgen.” Goddag, kaffe, spin doktor. He’d get involved in something; he’d volunteer, do what she’d suggested. Something he could care about; there were plenty of things. He’d get a bike, and a backpack. Join a walking club and a choir. He’d read more. He’d have the dinner ready for when she came home from work. He’d follow her out on Fridays, wherever she wanted to go.

He lifted his arm and brought the cloth across some of the stains. They came away nicely. She’d see the clean wall when she got up, or came home. He’d say nothing. He took a breath and lifted his right arm again.

Thirty years of box sets. They were living in a golden age of television drama. He’d read that somewhere. And he believed it. ♦