work in progress

irish mike

"You know it doesn't matter what you tell them" the prince said gently to us, "they are never going to believe you know Irish Mike."
" Why not?" Niamh demanded, so angry at not being believed, she had forgotten we were of course lying. The cold hand that was squeezing my lungs tightened its grip.

The Prince looked at us carefully like he was not sure whether to tell us the truth or not. He sighed, pursed his lips, sighed again, heavily this time. "It's not your business" he began slowly "but well, Irish Mike does not exist." Well that was fairly conclusive. We made no response. I felt a lump in my throat. I was out of options.

"Why did they ask us here then? "asked Maeve reasonably.

It was one of those accidents that you come to realise are meant to be. We were looking for a bedsit or something and on the boat I had found a book called Nietzche for Beginners. I actually never read it. Inside was a piece of paper giving an address in London, Finsbury Park. written above it was "ask for Irish Mike".Why on earth did we go there that first night? Well reason one was that we had nowhere to stay. We hoped that we could blag Irish mike and say someone had sent us.

When we got there we discoverd it was a squat. It was not hard to tell as the tenants ( do you call squatters that?) had posted a notice outside the front door announcing that they were squatting the house under section something of the something act.

The front door looked nice and clean, freshly painted. The garden was tidy, Our plan was to say that soemone had given us this address and that we could stay there a night. The someone was a friend of Irish Mike's. Hopefully Irish Mike was as chaotic as us and would not remember all of his acquaintances off the top of his head. It sounded clever on the Tube.