The cold air blew past the last of the yuppie drunks as they made their way towards Trinity. The bus stop on the corner was busy with christmas partiers; their media interpretation of drunk driving over-ruling a primate urge to do what they wanted, whatever the cost later. As they ran to catch the final night bus to their more comfortable and cosmetically pleasing suburbs, fumbling around each other, they looked like kids on a day trip; the alcohol reverting them back to childhood, far from the pressures of their economic-boom induced jobs and standard lives. The Christmas lights, which spanned the commercial streets, creaked and swayed in the wind, which blew up from the bay and was funnelled and accelerated by the Liffey. The clouds passing the moon overhead darkened the streets, making them rely on the neon lights from fast food joints and closing night-clubs for illumination.

Rick had just about had it for the night. He had been standing under the second last lamppost on O'Connell Street, hidden apart from his feet and lower leg, for about eight hours. It was his lamppost. In his job location was everything and turf wars were not uncommon when a new kid hit the streets. It was a unordinarily cold winter so turf wars were few. Kids didn't seem to mind the abuse as much when it was cold outside. He kicked the post and put all his weight on one of hs legs. He was freezing and bored with the whole thing. Custom was slow that night making it even longer and colder than it should have been. The clients, or perve's, as Rick referred to them, had been few and far between. Some cars had pulled up later in the night, when the wives were in bed and the kids christmas stocking filled, but sped away quickly when he began to emerge. 'Bloody newcomers', he'd shouted after them, angered by their cowardice and by the knawing action of the wind on his body. He didn't feel sorry for them. They were perve's, why the hell should he. He felt sorry for himself and for the moths that gathered in his wallet. He wished they'd pull the window down if only to let some of the warm conditioned air fall onto his chapped face. They were only beginners for the first, maybe second trick. After that they became tied up in a game that was hard to end. He hate them, even more so because he needed them.

'Once you pop, you just can't stop', Rick muttered angrily, blowing into his bitterly cold hands as he turned around once more, scanned the street and walked towards O'Connell bridge. He'd had enough. His arse was frozen and unlikely to sell at that time. He didn't care anymore. He'd saved enough to catch a charter flight to a hotter climate and intended to get there as soon as a seat became available. He hadn't been abroad before but had heard from another of the rent boy's that life was a little easier down south. 'At least it's not so feicin' cold', he thought and he hurried past the cinema's and hotels that populate upper O'Connell Street, noticing none of them in his attempt to focus purely on getting home where it was warm; well warmer.

His mind, not used to concentration, wondered again as he became mesmerised by the sound of his own footsteps echoing on the empty street. His mind often drifted from reality, reawakening the instant his environment changed. He had nothing to stay in reality for. Fantasy could only be better. He was being interviewed again on the Late Late show. The topic was 'Life on the streets of Dublin' and Rick had been asked to talk candidly about exactly that. He was glad to.

'It's not just the... well work, it's the damn temperature as well Gay. You don't know what it's like to hide in the darkness behind a stream of light for eight hours. You can't leave and get a coffee until you've earned money to buy that coffee... And, if and when you do leave your spot and cross the street.... you see all the cars that weren't there moments before, slowing down and peering beyond the street light to see if there's a 'renty' lurking behind... It's not like on TV. There's no camaraderie, nobody to bring you cups of coffee, and the cops, shit there a bunch 'a prick's. They leave the women alone but because we're male... well you know what I mean. They don't like to think that there are guy's out there that like to sleep with other guys, especially for money. Idiots... it's a job like any other. Give me a cop's uniform and I'll do that job. I don't like what I do... you'd be mad if you did, but... a guy's gotta eat right, gotta live! It's not like my father's feicin' Donald Trump'. Pausing for a moment to gather his train of thought he looked about the studio at the silent and somewhat blank faces of the audience. He'd regreted using bad language, he'd been warned againist it before he went on air but got carried away. Most of them followed the camera, waiting for their 15 seconds of fame, which invariably would be displayed as a foolish wave or artificial smile. 'God, didn't they a word I said', he thought. This show's content contained nothing classifiable as humour, not to the sane or sympathetic at least. He continued to scan the studio, his eyes finally resting at the active camera, distinguishable from the others by it glowing red light. Looking into it's reflective panoramic lens he tried to fake a frown, hoping for sympathy. The red glare from it's top reflected none of what it was he wanted. His mind refocused; the red 'camera active' light desmudged to the red glow from Supermac's as it fluttered for the last time that night. 'Man, I'm off my feicin' rocker', he joked as he rejoined the cold weather.

'Fuck it's cold', he shouted to one the fast food employees who had been given the job of sweeping the street down in front of the store. He turned and looked at Rick, smiling first but quickly becoming more wary.

'Hey, don't have a cow... I was just being friendly.... Ah piss off back to your Mac job and Mac life asshole', Rick responded pulling his coat closer to his body and marching onwards.

'Like you're much different to me', he thought. 'A crap job's a crap job no matter how you look at it'. In a couple of day's he'd be in Spain. He wanted to go to Ibiza, thinking he might have a better chance of making money there. The mix of straight and gay tourists there was in his favour. 'Better than freezin' my ass of in bloody Dublin any rod', he thought, stopping at the lights on O'Connell bridge.

He had a squat with some other rent boy's near Lesson Street. 'Quiet posh', he'd thought, until he got there. It was a dump like all the other squat's he'd stayed at. Location was the only benefit; not that he frequented the cheesy clubs that polluted the street at night. 'I'd rather do what I do than live the lives of those artificial goon's'. Being a squatter didn't give him the right to complain to the local council... So he let it go.

He walked across the street and onto the bridge, turning his head to look down the Liffey. He liked the lights and the way they reflected from the murky waters of the river.

'The Liffey Reflective', he said as he stopped to take it all in for what he hoped would be the last time. 'In the day the river looks dirty as hell, in the night as bright as a new penny' the dirt hidden in the darkness. Kinda like me I guess', he thought optimistically.

Drawing in a deep breath he removed his hand from the stone wall and went to turn. He stalled for a moment and peered across at the walled riverbank, directly in front of the USIT centre. There was somebody walking up the ladder and onto the road.

'What the hell is that idiot doing', he thought. 'Like it's not cold enough'. Reaching the top of the wall the climber swung his/her body over the rounded stone and jumped onto the pavement. Rick looked back into the water and noticed something floating there.

'Hey, hey you... you've left som....', he shouted, interrupted by a bright light shining towards him. He covered his face from the glare and walked towards the light. Before he got anywhere near its source he was stopped by the sharpness of its owners voice. 'You saw nothing right... NOTHING!', the stranger shouted angrily. It was a man; quiet large from the silhouette formed by the car that had pulled up to collect him. 'NOTHING, if you know what's good for you', the voice shouted again, this time more threatening.

As the stranger sat into the car he looked again at Rick unaware that the light from the cars ceiling now caught his face.

'Jesus', Rick murmured, recognising its owner. 'What's he doing here'.

The driver of the car must have noticed Rick's changing facial expression as he quickly turned the light off and opened his door. He began to walk towards Rick, his pace increasing exponentially with time. Rick became scared and started to back away, slowly at first but then matching the speed of his chaser. Soon he had turned and was running towards the main bus station and Customs House. Looking back as he approached the first pillar of the well restored building his eyes fell onto an empty street. His breath was clouding his vision as it pumped out in front of his face and was cooled by the winter air. The adrenaline that flowed throughout his body made him jerk periodically, as it was no longer required for flight or fright. He stood still for a moment listening to the silence that surrounded him. It was hard to believe that a city of that size could completely unwind at that time of the night. There was no sound; no body.

He started to walk slowly back towards the bridge, this time along the riverside pavement, continuously peering towards the arched structure as if one of the three Billy-goats waiting for the Troll to pounce. There was no Troll as he approached but once again his attention was drawn to the riverbank wall, this time at the other side of the bridge. Whatever was in the water had been dragged down river by the retreating tide.

He scanned the area again and decided to cross the bridge to take a closer look. Whatever was there must have been important. Men of that statue don't go fishing at that time of the night, especially in the Liffey.

He reached the other side in a matter of minutes, the fear now almost a memory. There was no way down to the river at that point of the wall so he walked about fifty meters further downstream and awaited the arrival of the package.

As he stood looking at the object slowly move toward him he began to feel the cold again, the sweat on his clothes now losing it's warmth and absorbing the cold from the air that surrounded him. The city was still silent and dark and Rick felt a little weird standing in the cold mist that rolled off of the water onto his legs.

'Come on, come on I'm bloody freezing for Christ sake', he muttered to himself through his cupped hands. The object seemed to hear him as suddenly it began to move at greater speed and was at his ankles only moments later.

When it was in reaching distance he thought for a moment about what it was he was doing. 'Christ... what am I doing here', he thought to himself, glancing around for a final scan of the area. Shaking the cold and aprehension off he tugged at the object and was almost pulled in by a combination of its weight and the drag of the now faster moving tidal flow.

'Whoa...', he muttered, compensating for the unexpected weight by anchoring his back leg against the river wall, 'this thing is heavy as'. Re-establishing his balance he pulled hard at the wet object dragging it through the water with difficulty, his small build, known as boyish good looks in his business, inadequate to carry its natural weight. Coupled with the weight of the water and tide it was alomost impossible. He blew the carbon dioxide and stale air from his lungs and gave it a final tug before he lost it for good. Once again he was unable to drag it closer to him; his attempt merely resulting in him falling back against the stone wall and hitting his arm.

'Shit', he shouted out in pain, grimacing and holding his unprotected elbow. Turning about to face the river again he repeated his earlier outburst but with more alarm and fear. He had pulled the covering away from the object as he'd fallen back. The covering now floated further out into the river leaving its contents closer to the edge. An arm and leg were floating above the surface of the river with the torso skimming it. Rick jerked back and hit the river wall painfully. 'Jesus Christ', he whispered, afraid she'd hear and scold him for exposing her body to the bitterly cold wind that continued to blow along the rivers surface.

As he stood there he thought back to the men he had seen by the object in the water, now identifiable as the corpse of a dead woman. He could tell it was female as it bobbed in the water, the arm retreating back behind its curtain. 'They couldn't have anything to do with this, not them... they're too... but why did they threaten me... shit I got to get the hell out of here', he thought, looking at the body floating into Dublin Bay. 'It's nothing to do with me, they wouldn't believe me anyway... shit, why me, why now'.

Rick stumbled up the steps onto the street overhead. He looked around. Again nobody, nobody he could see anyway. He swallowed the spit that had built up in his mouth. It was sour; old. He didn't know what time it was, how long it had been since this had all started. He wanted to go home and did.

He walked through the streets feeling stoned. The images gathered by his eyes displayed like stills rather that real time video. He could see Georgian doors and windows; he tripped over some steps at one point; it became all neon again and then back to Georgian. Where was he? Before he knew it, for he knew very little that night, he was back at his squat. It was getting brighter now and there were people on the street... looking at him... How long had they been looking at him? Had they seen him at the riverside? Did they follow him home? The images began to get faster but they still jerked, he was cold, no he was freezing. It became dark again as the pain left his body. He fell to the street as if his bones had been liquefied. The night was over as people huddled around him, the cold air filling the previously warm spaces underneath his coat. 'What was HE doing in the car'.