The Death Houses, where the sick and destitute of Georgian Dublin spent their last despairing days, had been pulled down years ago. In truth, the houses were demolishing themselves without an official action as they crumbled, decayed and declined into grimy, wind-whistling disrepair.
After the demolition the site laid idle, being in the "undesirable" part of town. Weeds began a steady colonisation campaign on the debris of bricks, stones and assorted fractured items not worth salvaging or reclaiming. There was evidence of cider parties, drug use, scattering a sordid confetti over the bleak space. Concerned parents warned their children not to play there: "Never know WHAT you'd catch." Locals hurried past. People noted you'd never hear birdsong there. But people can often say things. It doesn't mean they're true.
It did seem as if the old site somehow created a wind tunnel as there was often a sudden , angry gust, swirling, a whisper rushing through the weeds, rustling, shaking the buddleia bush, sending fading crisp bags flying. Even on a day that wasn't windy. That's how it was. For years. An unlovely, unloved spot.
Then there was The Boom and in a Boom what was previously seen as ugly and undesirable becomes chic, hip and suitable for gentrification. Profitable. The developers got the site " for a song . . . seriously . . . we're going to make major killing on this . . . " and the diggers and jack hammers appeared.
Then the replacement ones when the first ones, mysteriously, seized up, making strange noises, rasping, gasping almost, and "dying". When the replacements had the same malady the locals were suspected of being vandals and yobs so a security firm was employed. After two nights the guard insisted on having a second person on duty with him. Then they brought along a guard dog. He refused to enter the site, hackles raised in a ridge, whimpering, straining to get his bulky, sharp-toothed self away as quickly as possible. The developers wondered whether the drug users had secret stashes of chemicals somewhere on site that gave off a strange scent, or gas. Or something.
Eventually a team of foreign builders, using lump hammers and brute force, set to work the old-fashioned way. Three of them ended up in hospital when a partial wall, solid enough, seemed to be blown over by a sudden wind gust. Mustn't have been that solid after all. And it was an old wall, of course. Part of one of the original walls.
It took longer than planned, and time IS money, so profit margins were shrinking, but, eventually, a new apartment block stood on the old site. It had a faux Georgian front to keep pesky planning department officials happy and inside was slick, shiny and mostly compliant with most regulations. The estate agent's glossy brochure highlighted the convenience to public transport, the city centre, numerous bars and restaurants, including an award winning, organic produce-filled café, all within easy walking distance.
Viewers traipsed in and hurried out. No-one asked for a second viewing of the state-of-the-art high gloss kitchen and the open-plan sitting/dining area suitable for entertaining. Not one sale. No spark of interest. Locals, walking past, laden with shopping bags, swore they heard noises inside the dark, vacant building. Something like a moan, or a groan, or crying. Hard to describe it really. The developers were watching their profit possibility fading and did a deal with the local authorities for housing. Better to get something back, some return.
Families moved in, then out. Very quickly. One family stayed, the only apartment occupied. They stayed until the father and one of the daughters were hospitalised when the kitchen cupboards fell off the wall on top of them. They moved out after that.
And then it was empty. Vacant. Just standing there, looking less polished, less attractive. Looking more like its neighbours. Until last year.
Hallowe'en.
By the time the smoke was noticed the flames had taken a grip, hungrily licking and tasting what they could reach. The fire-fighters arrived, but too late. Nothing to be done. The flames rose and danced, almost like figures, twisting, writhing, reaching into the night sky with clawed hands and snatching fingers.
Some say it was the shoddy building work. Some say someone must have broken in. The druggies. Squatters. Someone with a grudge against the developers.
No matter. It's gone now. Rubble, charred bricks, bits of exploded glass like grim glitter sprinkled over the ruined remains. The smell of smoke still lingers, all these months later, in spite of those angry wind gusts that still happen. The weeds are starting to reclaim the plot. Twisting, creeping, covering what they can, and holding it close.
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