How easy it was

I knew she was having trouble at home. All those messages she sent out, y’know, and the shady tweets about her mam’s new fella not giving a damn about her. I figured she wouldn’t be that much missed. At least not for a little while.

Truth be told, I wasn’t even looking for anything much when I first came across her. I was just doing my usual rounds. There were plenty of them using the ‘LocalsinDublin’ hashtag, so I thought, why not go for a browse? But I couldn’t believe that it was her. The ‘Emily Crossan’. Last time I had seen her, we had just been small yokes running around the estate. She’d always managed to get the ball past me into the net, showing me up in front of the lads. She made me into an embarrassment, and I was always put in goals because of her. Couldn’t wait to see the back of Emily when she moved.

But yeah, I knew it was her in an instant. Same dark brown eyes and curly hair. She could’ve looked well if she had bothered to care. Her picture was grand, like. I screen-grabbed it anyway to add to my list of pickings. Used the ‘reverse image’ search on it online to find the rest of her social media accounts.

She friended my fake profile quickly enough, so guess I must’ve looked the part. All I did was grab some other wan’s pictures from Insta. After I was in it, it was easy. I had loads of profiles on the go, organising where people were going to be and around when. Jesus, like, I even had spreadsheets!

It wasn’t too long before Emily added me to her ‘Close Friends’ list, but she’d have me wrecked by the way she kept on bitching. I’d send her supportive messages, of course, saying I’d be going through the same thing, and she lapped that up. Learned all about how she felt about Dave, her mam’s new lad and how he wasn’t good enough, how she hated being an only child and how she was bullied in primary school. Didn’t seem to have any real friends except those online. I kind of felt sorry for her. She was pathetic, really. Nothing like the pics she posted.

She was mad for putting out photos up though; obsessed with it. Like everywhere she’d go, she’d be snapping and tagging things. Not like me. At least I had a purpose. Like I said, I was a real entrepreneur looking for things to sell. 

But I’d seen it, the new phone, online, you know. How can you blame me? Sure, she was practically baiting me to take it. And she kept tagging the company’s accounts as if they’d actually care. My grandad used to say I was like a magpie grabbing things all the time! I’d usually just go for a shove to catch them off guard and grab their phones. I don’t look it, but I’m strong.

I’d gotten loads of phones over the years. Made a fair amount of money too. Was a tidy business. The shock would render them useless, so they wouldn’t put up a fight after the shove. And here I was with the chance to get back at Emily. It was going to be easy.

* * *

Emily pressed her finger down on the ‘home’ button on the phone, and her fingerprint bypassed the password as usual. She couldn’t even remember what the numbers were anymore; it had become that intuitive.

‘Christ, ’ she thought, it was so cold, almost below freezing. Why didn’t she bring any gloves? She sucked in the cold air, willing it to be warm and kept her pace walking through the park. The sunset had been beautiful though. It had been totally worth it, and when she had uploaded it to Instagram, she knew to make use of the right hashtags. No time like the present to get the ‘likes’ in. Maybe Kate would finally take notice of her now?

‘Another stunning sunset in Phoenix Park. Can’t beat it,’ she typed, double-checking that she tagged the park as her location. Her face was fixated on the screen, determined. From the corner of her eye, she spotted the jogger running by. Plain white runners. No notable brand. Nothing special.

‘Mental to be out in this cold,’ she thought as she signed the caption off as usual with her signature ‘Love Emz xxx’. She’d look back in about five minutes to gauge how many ‘likes’ it got. Sunsets usually did well, and she needed a break from all the drama back at home.

Emily continued quickly towards the entrance of the park, passing a couple pushing a buggy, cooing at the cosy bundle inside. She smiled and glanced at the screen of the phone. She’d make the next Luas no problem. She had complained earlier online about the delays the 46A constantly gave her at the stop outside her home – even gave the stop number – but she doubted they’d do anything about it.

She put on her headphones and pulled up the faux-fur hood on her green jacket, pushing her brown curls safely inside. The coat was brand new from TK Maxx, but the cold was piercing her legs now, and she sped up.

The entrance was just around the corner; the light had completely faded. Emily took out her phone again and went to check the sunset picture. Twenty likes so far. Not bad. Even if she was pissed at her mam, she had to admit that it was pretty sound of her to fund the new phone to stay in touch. And the camera really was amazing. She let out a frustrated sigh, her icy breath forming in front of her as she stared at the picture of the sun falling from the sky. Deep down, she knew that she didn’t really hate Dave either, just missed her mam’s company. She’d ring her later and apologise.

But now she was falling. Just falling. A dull feeling in the back of her head. And the last thing Emily saw was white runners before hitting the ground.

* * *

These women, I swear. What did she call herself? ‘Influencer’ or some shite like that. Flashing this new tech like she was living in D4. I knew where she was really from. Our estate was grand, but it was far from posh. She was just an absolute chancer. Emily wasn’t even that special – had like what, 2000 followers? And it was always just some random lads giving her the ‘likes’, telling her that she looked good and sending her hearts. What saps.

It was absolutely Baltic out that evening too. I had to wear double layers. It was a big ask for me to get my running gear on in that weather. No one would suspect me. I was invisible. And it was worth it because lo and behold, there she was in the park, exactly as I knew she would be, taking pictures. She barely even looked away from her phone the whole time. It was comical. Totally in her own world. 

I just needed to move her after the hit to get to her phone. She was making all these noises, so I knew I didn’t have much time. I nabbed her coat off her too, looked brand new. But it wasn’t like she was dead when I left her. I just gave her a tap. A little one. They always were grand after a bit.

Ah, but the phone was deadly altogether. It was worth it. She had boasted to me about how it was the latest one, a gift from her mam. I messaged her before and told her that I thought it was class. Said she was lucky to have it. Ha. Worth more, easy sell, I figured. You know I was to meet some lad later about that phone? He was going to give me €600!

All I needed was her hand to unlock it, and it was still warm even when I moved her. Like I said, I’d watched her a fair while online, so I knew how she typed too, like. She was all ‘Love Emz xxx’ this and ‘Good Vibes’ that. Easy enough. But had to make sure people were thrown off, d’you get me? She had all her social media still logged in and everything, so I sent off a few of the extra snaps she’d taken in the park, on the Dart and at cafés over the following day. Made sure I added the locations too.

When her mam rang, I just pretended that I was pissed and didn’t answer. Sent a lengthy text instead. Went on and on about how much I hated Dave and that she was a cow and that I wish she wasn’t my mam anymore. It was all just so simple. If anything, ye should be thanking me. I’m the one highlighting the flaws in the system after all! You wouldn’t believe how easy it was.

* * *

Garda Detective Sinéad Kelly uncrossed her arms as she finished speaking and looked down at the report and newspaper clippings in front of her.

‘Gardaí have confirmed that human remains found in Phoenix Park are those of 19-year-old student Emily Crossan who went missing last Sunday’ read one of the articles.

Emily was found shoved into the overgrowth in the wetlands. Pools of marsh had soaked her. She had been stripped of her coat. Bag snatched. Phone and headphones were taken. It seemed that she had been knocked out, moved, and the cold had gotten to her as she lay in the soggy ground. The temperature was freezing that evening and the subsequent night. Her body wasn’t found for two days.

But yet this 17-year-old in front of her sounded so eager to tell her story even after she was caught, as if it was a point of pride to tell Sinéad about the process. Instinctively, the young Garda thought of her own daughter, and her hands went to grip the edge of the metal table. The dull light above them whirred to break the silence.

Without blinking, she stared her right in the eye. ‘And you say you’ve no regrets about what happened at all, Lauren?’

‘Why would I? Like I said, I just left her there. Yeah, I get that I stole something, maybe a few things, but I didn’t kill her. I knew she’d come around eventually, like, they all do. It was just a bitta craic for a fancy phone. Anyway, it’s not my fault she shared all that shite online.’

Written by Úna-Minh Kavanagh ©

Author’s Note: I have a confusing relationship with technology, particularly social media. And so I came up with this idea while spending way too much time browsing socials and thinking about everything we share online. It has been both a blessing and a curse for my career. A blessing in that I’ve connected with so many interesting and wonderful folks – some of whom I call my closest friends – but a curse in the amount of a timesuck it is (and of the racial nastiness I’ve been on the receiving end of). It intrigues me.

Stone Wall

My fingers grazed the top of the keyboard; the clock was ticking in the background. The dull clicking sound had long lulled us all into a pattern.

Opposite me, Dee – I could tell – was getting ready to grab another coffee from the kitchen. It was 3 pm, and she was ready for our catch-up. The daily ritual. She had been surprisingly cordial with me as of late, maybe even interested in what I had to say, which was unusual given her position.

Even though I had been at the company for six months, I still felt like the new girl in the office. I constantly bore the brunt of excess tasks that no one wanted, but Dee still took notice of me, and admittedly, her apparent warmth felt good. I almost felt like she saw me as a friend.

My colleague’s hand appeared around the side of her computer screen. In it, she clasped a pristine white mug and tilted it from side to side. Finally, I thought.

‘Fancy a cuppa, Emma?’

I immediately grabbed my red cup and waved it back in her direction. ‘Always.’

We both headed to the dinky office kitchen, passing by one of the accountants, and Dee rolled her eyes when she saw that the coffee pot was once again empty. ‘They always forget to top it up after they leave. Honestly, it’s not that hard to do something so stupidly simple, is it?’

I nodded. She was right. It really was so easy. I grabbed the coffee filters out of the press and prepared new scoops for the machine. I was used to this daily routine by now. It was like clockwork for me.

‘Anyway,’ Dee said, leaning against the counter and watching me. ‘How has your week been going, Emma? You look so stressed and tired these days. I hope everything is ok at home?’

I shrugged. ‘Same old, same old,’ I said, wiping down the countertop intuitively. I knew what she was waiting for and placed the cloth back in its resting place. The coffee machine whirred.

‘Oh, Seán doing his usual?’ Dee opened the door of the fridge and brought out some carrot cake. It looked so fresh with a neat layer of icing atop, homemade and perfect. She pulled out two plates from the drawer, placed them in front of the cake and sliced through it with a knife.

‘God, you must be a saint. That must be such a pain to have to feel like you’ve to pick up after him all the time’ she said, adding a large slice on the plate for me without asking.

I barely hesitated and tucked in. It was delicious. ‘Yeah, it’s a wonder how he manages to function at all, to be honest,’ I said. My colleague nodded. She understood. But even as the words escaped my lips, I knew that the pang would be there. It always was, and I could never escape it. It pit and twisted in my stomach.

I mentioned Seán every coffee break. But was it really that bad? I was just saying it to Dee, wasn’t I? It was only ever between us. I brushed the pang off and continued; I wanted to fit in after all, and the coffee pot was nearly full.

‘Last week it was his card key; this week he forgot his binder,’ I began, the words spilling out of my mouth. ‘Then he rang me asking if I could bring it in for him because it was so important. It was a waste of time, Dee. Sometimes I feel like I should sew everything to his clothes.’

There it was again, that nasty pang. I shook it off like I did every single time I felt it. But chatting with Dee felt good. She seemed to get me. Understand me. Listen to me. Maybe even care for my woes. Why did it feel good?

Dee popped a small bit of the cake into her mouth, licked off the icing from the fork and gave a knowing smile. ‘Sounds like he doesn’t value his things,’ she said as she offered me another slice of the cake.

I nodded and filled up her cup and mine – the dark red one that Seán bought me – as I ate the slice.

All of it was true, of course; he did lose a lot of things and forgot them on the way to work too. It was just like talking about the weather.

* * *

‘Look, Emma, can I say something?’ It was nighttime now, and Seán and I were in our small cubby hole of an apartment in Dublin. The window was open, and a gentle breeze was drifting in.

Seán put down his book, tucking a receipt between its pages. Its weight fell onto the duvet of the bed. I heard him inhale when I didn’t respond. ‘You know…’ he said. ‘It doesn’t make me feel good when you say things like that in front of people.’

I flinched as I pulled my face away from Dee’s socials and looked at him. ‘Say things like what?’

He scratched his chin. He did that thing he does when he’s nervous and nibbled at his thumbnail. I readied myself.

‘It doesn’t make me feel good when you joke about my forgetfulness when we’re out with the lads or even when I’m not there. You know I can’t help it.’

‘Can’t you?’ As I said it, his face flushed. What was wrong with me that I chose to say it like that? And why did I feel a little bit of satisfaction?

‘No, I can’t, Emma, it’s not as if I’m not trying. It just happens. I lose things, and it’s exhausting for me too; you know?’ The ensuite tap dripped.

‘Seán, I have to babysit you when it comes to your possessions,’ I said. ‘It’s as if you’re expecting me to sympathise with you every time you lose something important. And when you asked me to bring in your card keys and your binders across Dublin, I missed out on getting my own things done. It’s an absolute chore.’

‘Hold on. You said you were grand with that when I asked if you were sure, and I even apologised for putting you out. Do you not remember that?’

Here we go. I braced myself. You can back out, a voice inside me said. You don’t have to go any further. It’s ok. But the other voice scraped at my side, an intoxicating feeling like a needle being pressed against my skin. Do it. Do it. You know what to say. It will feel great.

‘I’m sick of your constant carelessness, Seán. It’s like you don’t give a damn about anything you own, losing things left and right. I shouldn’t have to play your mother, cleaning up your messes and making sure you don’t leave your brain behind. Can you not be more responsible?’ I chose my words wisely with added venom; I had practised them a million times. I felt triumphant and disgusted with myself.

Seán didn’t say anything for a few minutes, and then his fingers went to rest on the cover of the book. ‘Is this what you want?’ he said.

There it was again, that pang in my stomach, my heart. I bit back the nausea. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Is this what you want?’ he said again, his voice filling me with dread. ‘A night where you shut me out and eventually end up stonewalling me over something trivial and then, later on, we pretend it’s all ok?

‘Do you want us to be like those couples who air their dirty laundry to anyone who’ll listen for the sake of a few moments of satisfaction? A vicious cycle of biting criticism until we both end up emotionally destroying each other, leaving nothing of what we once were?’

‘Because you know I love you, Emma, I love you more than anything in this world. I would take the bitterness and swallow it all if that’s what you want. But the longer this goes on, I don’t know what I will become, and I don’t know what our relationship will be. Is that what you want?’’

* * *

The clock was ticking in the background. I placed my fingers on the keyboard and grazed the numbers with my nails, slowly entering each figure. The dull clicking sound had lulled us once again into a systematic pattern.

Opposite me, Dee was typing furiously at her computer. The clack, clack, clack of her fingers bore into my head. It was 2.50 pm, and I could tell she was getting ready to grab a coffee. She was due for her daily catch-up.

At 3 pm, her perfectly polished hand appeared around the side of her computer screen, clasping her white mug. ‘D’you fancy a cuppa?’

I looked down at my red one, stained with coffee and thought back to Seán’s words the previous night. I thought back to the moments afterwards when I didn’t say a word to him and silently turned my back to face away, pulling up the covers over my shoulders with my phone clasped in my hand. I thought back to how I eventually turned around to Seán and whispered ‘I’m sorry’ as I kissed his lips, his neck, and his chest, and we made love as we usually do. Like clockwork, my stone wall had crumbled.

* * *

‘Emma, you there?’ Dee’s voice snapped me back to reality. The spreadsheets sat before me. Just endless numbers on a screen in an office where I didn’t feel like I belonged.

‘Did you not hear me, Emma? Last chance, do you want coffee or not?’

Oh god. Don’t make me choose, I thought. Don’t make me choose between fitting in and being left out. Please, Dee, don’t make me choose.

Written by Úna-Minh Kavanagh ©

Author’s Note: This is a short story I came up with when contemplating office and couple dynamics. Maybe you’ve come across these kinds of folks. The couples who try to one-up each other. The office worker who loves listening to your drama. The quiet moments where you can’t figure out how to express your emotions. I’m a reserved person by nature – though extroverted when around folks I know – but I know there have been times when it feels like office gossip is the only way to ‘connect’ to your colleagues.