Dublin diary (I)

'Howyeh luv? Wanna come down to da beach wid me, look for crabs?'

They walk too fast, the pusher and his customer in their scummy nylon shell suits. Always in a hurry going nowhere fast. Hollow cheeks, dead eyes.

Pieces of H in a brown paper bag change owner while they scurry past Christchurch cathedral. A tall black girl glides by, the dealer looks and makes his lewd remark.

Maybe he knows her, maybe he doesn't. Maybe she sells, maybe she doesn't.

Dealer and client continue down to the river, laughing, coughing up phlegm.