Are the platters gone? she asked. A man named Gary who was seated opposite said: No one here is really working class, though. Eileen rubbed at her nose. Yeah, she said.
Well, Marx would disagree with you, but I know what you’re saying.
People love to claim that they’re working class, Gary said. No one here is actually from a working-class background.
Right, but everyone here works for a living and pays rent to a landlord, said Eileen.
Raising his eyebrows, Gary said: Paying rent doesn’t make you working class.
Yeah, working doesn’t make you working class. Spending half your pay cheque on rent, not owning any property, getting exploited by your boss, none of it makes you working class, right? So what does, having a certain accent, is it?
With an irritated laugh he answered: Do you think you can go driving around in your dad’s BMW, and then turn around and say you’re working class because you don’t get along with your boss? It’s not a fashion, you know. It’s an identity.
Eileen swallowed a mouthful of her drink. Everything is an identity now, she said. And you don’t know me, by the way. I don’t know why you’re saying no one here is working class, you don’t know anything about me.
I know you work at a literary magazine, he said.
Jesus. I have a job, in other words. Real bourgeoisie behaviour.
Darach said he thought they were just using the same term, ‘working class’， to describe two distinct population groups: one, the broad constituency of people whose income was derived from labour rather than capital, and the other, an impoverished primarily urban subsection of that group with a particular set of cultural traditions and signifiers.
Paula said a middle-class person could still be a socialist and Eileen said the middle class did not exist. Everyone started talking over each other then. Eileen checked her phone once more. There were no new messages, and the time displayed on the screen was 23:21. She drained her glass and started to put her jacket on. Blowing a kiss, she waved goodbye to the others at the table. I’m off home, she said. Happy birthday, Darach! See you again soon. Amid the noise and conversation, only a few people seemed to notice she was leaving, and they waved and called out to her retreating back.
Ten minutes later, Eileen had boarded another bus, this one heading back toward the city centre. She sat alone by a window on the upper deck, slipping her phone out of her pocket and unlocking it. Opening a social media application, she keyed in the name
‘Aidan Lavelle’， and tapped the first suggested search result. Once the profile was loaded, Eileen scrolled down mechanically, almost inattentively, to view the most recent updates, as if spurred by habit rather than spontaneous interest. With a few taps she navigated from Aidan Lavelle’s page to the profile of the user Actual Death Girl, and waited for that to load. The bus was stopping at St Mary’s College then, the doors releasing and passengers alighting downstairs. The page loaded, and absently Eileen scrolled through the user’s recent updates. As the bus pulled off, the stopping bell rang again. Someone sat down next to Eileen and she glanced up and smiled politely before returning her attention to the screen. Two days previously, the user Actual Death Girl had posted a new photograph, with the caption ‘this sad case’。 The photograph depicted the user with her arms around a man with dark hair. The man was tagged as Aidan Lavelle. Looking at this photograph Eileen’s mouth came open slightly and then closed again. She tapped the photograph to enlarge it. The man was wearing a red corduroy jacket. Around his neck the woman’s arms were attractive, plump, shapely. The photograph had received thirty-four likes. The bus was pulling up to another stop now and Eileen turned her attention out the window. They were stopping at Grove Park, just before the canal. A look of recognition passed over her face, she frowned, and then with a jolt she got to her feet, squeezing past the passenger beside her. As the doors opened she jogged her way almost breathlessly down the staircase and, thanking the driver in the rear-view mirror, alighted onto the street.
It was approaching midnight now. The windows of apartments showed yellow here and there above a darkened shopfront on the corner. Eileen zipped her jacket up and fixed her handbag over her shoulder, walking, it seemed decisively, in a particular direction.
As she went, she took her phone out once more and re-examined the photograph. Then
she cleared her throat. The street was quiet. She pocketed the phone and smoothed her hands firmly down the front of her jacket, as if wiping them clean. Crossing the street she began to walk more briskly, with long free strides, until she reached a tall brick townhouse with six plastic wheelie bins lined up behind the gate. Looking up, she gave a strange laugh, and rubbed her forehead with her hand. She crossed the gravel and rang the buzzer on the front door. For five seconds, ten seconds, nothing happened. Fifteen seconds. She was shaking her head, her lips moving silently, as if rehearsing an imaginary conversation. Twenty seconds elapsed. She turned to leave. Then from the plastic speaker Simon’s voice said: Hello? Turning back, she stared at the speaker and said nothing. Hello, his voice repeated. She pressed the button.