My bedroom has a good view of the street below. Bad management of my personal finances has left me without the necessary cash to buy any curtains until next month, so until December rolls around, I sit at my desk every evening stark naked, aware that I can be seen by all my neighbours across the street. Only joking. The lack of curtains bit is true though, and sometimes it's easy to get distracted by what is happening down there on the street. A few nights ago, I sat in front of the window for quite a while, spaced out and glassy eyed, with the dreaded book of shorthand lying open and ignored on the desk in front of me.
All of a sudden, a loud crashing noise snapped me out of my squiggle and dot induced stupor. I couldn't see what had caused the sound. In front of the 24 hour shop across the street, a group of about 5 or 6 young fellas wearing hoodies were shouting at someone further up the street. I couldn't see anyone at first, but eventually 3 men in their mid-twenties came into view, sauntering up as far as the group of youngsters, a confident bravado in the way they swung their shoulders and stuck their chests out. They didn't look Irish, though I could be mistaken. They had quite tanned skin and two of them had long hair. Only the loudest exclamations were audible, and it was hard to make out exactly what the confrontation was about, though from the hand gesturing and body language it was clear that the young lads had done something to annoy the three men, who looked like they had no intention of backing off from their much younger adverseries.
A teenage girl stood ouside the chinese takeaway on the corner, only a few metres away, and shouted something at the two groups. I heard someone telling her to fuck off. The stand off continued, the two groups staring each other down and after about a minute of verbal exchange, confronted by these older and stronger men, the teenagers seemed to back off a little. It seemed that all the posturing and threats would not lead to actual violence after all.
Suddenly, another group of young fellas came tearing around the corner. There were at least as many in this new group as there were involved in the stand off. With the fresh reinforcements, they now outnumbered the other group by at least three to one. The first to arrive hurled a glass bottle as hard as he could at the men. It struck one of them and smashed against the wall, scattering glass everywhere. The man who had been struck bent down to cover his face as he was hit, while his two friends ran back along the street. With only one vulnerable figure before them, the youngsters suddenly found courage, the kind that comes from being part of a mob, and began to rain punches and kicks down upon the man. He broke away from them and ran down the street. After a moments hesitation the youths pursued him, bottles flying through the air, and the sound of exploding glass ricocheted around the street. It was hard to tell if any of them had hit their target.
By now, a small group of curious passerbys had gathered around the girl, who was still screaming at them to stop. The three men had fled into what was presumably their apartment, because at this stage the young fellas turned their attention to a balcony a few floors up, just beyond my field of vision. Bottles, cans, peices of wood, anything that came to hand, was flung upwards. I could hear the sound of the projectiles smashing against the walls and windows and see how caught up in the excitement of the moment the boys were.
They heard the sirens of the gardai even before I did, and in the space of a couple of seconds had all vanished around the corner of the 24 hour shop again. Two gardai walked up and down the street outside for a minute or two, and had a quick peek down the dark and poorly lit road where the assailants had made their escape, but it was clear that they were just going through the motions.
Meanwhile, the girl called up to the three men to come down from their flat. I could hear her shouting "They've gone!". An ambulance arrived and reluctantly the man who had been struck by the bottle was persuaded to go with them. The other onlookers gradually drifted away after the ambulance had gone. The girl went back into the chinese takeaway, and the gardai sat back into their squad car and pulled away. The street was empty again and curiously peaceful. About 10 minutes afterwards, the guy who had thrown the first bottle was back again, his hood up, leaning against the wall at the corner of the 24 hour shop. Across the street, safe up in my room, I looked down at him and wondered what was running through his head after having done what he did. His head flicked up and his gaze hung in the general direction of my window for a prolonged moment. I don't know if he was looking at me, but my eyes shot down as fast as they could to Mr. Pitman's little book.
It seems silly now, but my first instinct had been to hide the fact that I had watched enthralled as these ugly and violent events unfolded beneath my window. I pretended to read so that I wouldn't make eye contact with this little thug, not out of fear of him, but because for some reason I felt a little embarrassed, like a voyeur caught in the act. Tis a strange dark world we live in.
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