Knightrider

On the road again, motorways, tolls, dying twilight and reluctant dawns. Dense fog like a symbol of the future. Sometimes the car sucks in the condensation and is slow to warm up. Chugs a bit, struggles through the gears, doesn’t fully commit to fifth. And then you have lads coming up the fast lane trying to flash you out of the way. One fella in a Polo got real emotional. Flash Flash Flash and drove right up so close you could see his dirty eyeballs. I pushed the rearview to the left so I couldn’t see him and let him drive around me. He was delighted, all thick revs and stressed acceleration, and took off. I gave him the fuck off flash back and turned up the radio and listened to all the good news which didn’t take long because there wasn’t any. Later, found a car park in Dublin close to the hostel where I was staying. It was tipped to be world class, great atmosphere, safe and friendly. And now It’s 2 o’clock in the morning and there’s a fella standing over the bed in a leather jacket. There’s a rucksack behind him against the wall and there was screeching and drunk skittering in the corridor outside. Your man said: ‘That’s my bed.’

            It was a four bed dorm and all the beds were full with people that were sleeping up until now. An American lad in the corner spoke and said, I think you’re in the wrong room.

            Your man was like something out of Knightrider with the collars up and the hard to see features. A woman to the left gave a dramatic toss from one side of the bunk to the other and there was a squeak of metal under pressure and the agitated sigh of someone that wished she’d paid extra for a hotel. Outside, through the window, there was two lads arguing at the wall of the Liffey and taxis strolled by and there was some girl with purple hair shouting at her friend up the street to come back, or hurry up, or some other variation of the intoxicated shriek.

            The Hoff looked around, figured it was a tough crowd, and picked up his rucksack and left. There was an almighty blast of light as he opened the door, like a portal into the sun, and you could see heads and legs running past. Think they were some kind of foreign language students playing fuck having a party. Things almost settled then, the room assembling itself into sense from the nonsense but I’d a fair idea your man would come back. Had that kind of vibe, like he’d walk around for a while, and try a few more doors and rooms, get quare looks from the students, and then arrive here again and start pulling at blankets and insisting he be allowed to stay. So I got up and went downstairs, through the blinding light and down the concrete stairs and asked them at the counter what the story was. The fella there was on a chair so low you couldn’t see his body so he just looked like a floating head. He said they’d had a few complaints already, and they were trying to find him, and did I know where he was, and could you let us know if he comes back, and sorry about this, and they were looking for him now and it shouldn’t be a problem soon, and sleep good, and enjoy your stay. World class. Great atmosphere. Safe and friendly.

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About The Naked Flame:  

Set in Athlone, the heart of the Irish midlands, The Naked Flame is a story of love, loss, betrayal, and passion. John joe is engaged but doesn’t want to get married. He’s not sure how to break this to Karen. Then it’s time for the stag party in Madrid. There he meets Marilyn. They spend the night together and everything changes. Now the wedding is cancelled, the police want to talk to him about a double murder and the phone is ringing with mysterious requests to come to London. John joe suddenly finds himself in a surreal world, full of unusual characters and extreme danger, with no obvious way out. Met with impossible choices he can only trust the alluring woman that offers all the answers – but at what cost?  

 Mick Donnellan’s fourth novel is rich in comedy, tragedy, hints of the absurd and undertones of a man in existential crisis. The story thunders along with unexpected twists and ominous turns that culminate in a devastating climax. A unique tale, it strikes an emotional note, and is guaranteed to supply an entertaining read. 

About Mick Donnellan 

Recent Awards/ projects: 

Mick Donnellan is the author of three previous novels. El Niño (2012) Fisherman’s Blues (2014) and Mokusatsu (2019). 

The Naked Flame was completed during a retreat at the Tyrone Guthrie Centre in late 2021. 

When not writing fiction he works as a successful Playwright and Screenwriter. Film credits include Tiger Raid (2016) adapted from Mick’s Play Radio Luxembourg.  He has recently received the Agility Award through the Arts Council of Ireland and the Mayo Theatre Bursary through Mayo Arts Office.  

His most recent Play Nally was supported by Westmeath Arts Office and aired in May 2021 as a Zoom/Youtube performance. It was attended by over two thousand viewers on the night and many more since.  

You can watch Nally here: https://youtu.be/FiJYuaa5x2Q  

In May 2020 Mick had a monologue (The Crucified Silence) chosen as part of the Scripts Ireland Play festival. After a week of intensive workshops with Playwright Eugene O’Brien, the monologue was directed by Jim Culleton (Fishamble) and performed by Aaron Monaghan.  

Mick is currently part of the Galway Theatre Development Programme run by Andrew Flynn in conjunction with Galway’s Town Hall Theatre. He is also listed on the Irish theatre institute here:  http://irishplayography.com/person.aspx?personid=47564 

Halifax or somewhere.

Had this dream that we were on a plane somewhere, Sudan, Yemen, Sahara vibe. Brown boxes across the floor like we were doing some kind of food airdrop. Engines going, a good height up, scorching blue sky. Pilots in army gear, all that craic. The door opens and a fella walks in. Mid-air like, rocks up, opens the door, no wind, this how we were rolling. He had a leather jacket, brown flairs, fuzzy hair. He said how’s things and I said not too bad. He had a voice like caramel over gravel. It went on like that for a while. Nothing explained, everything surreal and yet normal. A smell like seaweed and clay, the engines humming their aeronautic tune. Then he got conspiratorial and said he was after getting a loan from the Credit Union. I asked him how much and he said 300 thousand. We let that settle, then he took a big thick envelope out of his pocket. It was like a sod of turf wrapped in brown paper, and he said: This is it, here.  

            I said: ‘What are you goin to do with that?’ 

            And he shrugged, looked around. He was wearing sunglasses now. Where’d they come from?  Next thing there was turbulence, and the door flew open and there was a big gust of wind, and screaming jet propellers, like on the films,  and he was hanging off the frame, screaming for help.  

            I ran over and he caught my hand, soapy and warm, and screamed at me to pull him in, but the force was too strong and he was gone. Good luck. No parachute, getting airdropped. I turned back to the pilots, but they didn’t seem to notice and after a while we were in a town like Nova Scotia, standing in some road with wooden houses either side, and your man was in bits all over the ground. Looked a bit like a sheep dog I hit with an Avensis one time around the back roads of Claregalway. Made an awful job of my front caliper.

            Here now.  People gathered in stupefied awe, looked, gasped, talked and gawked. They all had that odd numb gum accent of the East coast Canadian Irish. A priest landed, pompous authority, fat as a fool, reckoned we ought to have some kind of service so he organized a big band with lads in kilts playing bagpipes and we all stood around, surrounded by trees and grass and the out of tune noise. Then. There was a fella standing beside me with glasses and a long trench coat and he said how sad it all was and did I know him well? I said no, I only met on the plane before he got fucked out the door, and did you know him well yourself? He raised his eyebrows, yellow gapped teeth, bloodshot eyes, hairy ears, and said he works for the Credit Union and was only after giving him a loan for 300 thousand the day before and how about that for irony?

And what happens with it now, I asked him. Doesn’t matter, he said. Life insurance will cover it. He blew his nose, black fingernails, tobacco stained fingers, blotched red nose, a distang dog whistle wheeze from his tar tuned lungs. Now the service was over and we all walked into town. Fairly sure we were in St. John’s at this stage, or Halifax or somewhere. Definitely not Montreal, or Quebec or even Toronto. It was the place where the rescue boats went out to try and save the Titanic that time. Big shtuff.