Second Hand Jane Read Online Free

slept rough in the building’s grand entrance
way had all shuffled off for the day. All except for one chap who
was still huddled under his grey greatcoat. Jess paused; it was so
sad to see—with all that grey, he blended into his surrounds. Most
passers-by wouldn’t even notice him. Rummaging in her bag, she
found what she was after and stuffed a tenner into the bag that lay
open next to him. She hoped he’d use it to buy breakfast and not
his next fix.
    A Saturday
afternoon stroll down the Quays was usually a much more relaxed
affair than an early morning weekday one when the traffic was at
its worst. Once, she’d almost been knocked down by a car mounting
the pavement in an effort to get out of the way of an ambulance.
The emergency vehicle had been trying to manoeuvre through the
middle of the two-lane traffic on a road that had originally been
designed for a horse and cart. After she’d gotten over her fright,
she’d fervently hoped that she was never in a position where she
needed help in a hurry.
    Reaching the Ha’Penny Bridge in good time,
Jess rocked from foot to foot as she waited her turn to cross over
to the Southside. Even from that distance, she could see that the
bridge was thronging with its usual horde of both tourists and what
her mother would call ne’er-do-wells. He was there in his usual spot, too, she thought, wrinkling
her nose as she spied the chap with the gingery dreadlocks sitting
on his piece of cardboard. His back was pressed up against the iron
railings and he was decked out in what some might call an
alternative and others might call the wastrel uniform of army
fatigues and Doc Marten boots.
    In the past,
she’d always done her bit for him—flicking a couple of euros into
the tin cup he’d hold out whilst worrying about the likelihood of
his getting piles sitting so close to the ground like that. That
was until the day she’d spotted him fine dining in the latest hip
little French bistro to open up in Dublin with a lady friend. So
much for on the bones of his arse—he was creaming it! Jess shot him
a disgusted look as she marched past, carrying on to her
destination of Tara Street Station.
     
    ***
     
    The train
didn’t keep her waiting long and she settled back to enjoy the
short ride. This was her favourite route on the Dart and not just
for the scenery but for the celebrity spotting, too. She was busy
trying to spot signs of life down in U2’s The Edge’s pink house. It
resplendently perched on the rocks overlooking the sea but she was
distracted by the couple sitting across from her. Neither looked to
be the full packet of biscuits, Jess concluded, giving the woman’s
frumpy floral, nylon housecoat the once-over. Her legs were splayed
in that slightly apart stance of the chubbily well-blessed and her
greasy, grey hair was short and to the point. Hubby looked like he
would be called Errol and he was in a brown suit. There was no need
for him to stand up for Jess to know it would be an ill-fitting
one. He had an impressive comb-over going on, too, which was
presently flapping up and down as his wife gave him a couple of
slaps about the ear-hole before calling him a “Fecking Eejit.”
    Jess sighed
happily; she did so love Dublin public transport theatre. It was
great fodder for her column—a Kiwi girl’s take on life in Ireland’s
capital. Take, for instance, the occasions when she caught the bus.
The harried housewives travelling on it seemed to incorporate the
word “fecking” into every sentence, pausing momentarily in their
cussing to cross themselves as they passed by St Patrick’s
Cathedral.
    Now, though,
the husband beater turned toward her and muttered something about,
“Fecking useless eejits.” This was Jess’s cue to smile in polite
agreement with her before averting her gaze back out the window.
Dublin public transport theatre was all well and good so long as
she wasn’t on the receiving end of it.
    The waves below
the tracks were crashing onto the