‘Crowley was obviously very familiar with The5,’ continued the Rock Star, ‘and wanted a way of facilitating their transit into this world. He saw Baird’s machinery as the answer.’

Mac didn’t speak as the enormity of this revelation fell hard on him like the heaviest rain.

‘Don’t worry,’ said the Rock Star, ‘for many various reasons Crowley and Baird fell out before the transit arrangements could be completed.’ He paused. ‘Guided by the First of The5, Crowley Baird Inc. has been set up to complete these arrangements once and for all.’

‘They are that new technology company who have moved into the old offices of the Irish Nationwide Building Society down on Merrion Row,’ said Mac. ‘I always thought that their name had some kind of infernal connotation.’

‘And you are right,’ crowed the Rock Star. ‘John Logie Baird didn’t develop television on his own. He was helped by another famous resident of the sleepy little seaside town where his workshop was based for a while.’

‘You mean Aleister Crowley,’ said Mac. ‘The self-proclaimed wickedest man in the world.’

‘I may be a fool,’ replied the Rock Star, visibly stung by Mac’s forthrightness, ‘but I’m the fool who currently knows more about everything than both of you put together.’

‘If that’s the case,’ replied Mac, ‘then perhaps you might give us the benefit of this knowledge.’

‘Why would I?’ asked the Rock Star. ‘What would be the point?’

‘Precisely,’ said Mac so seriously that the Rock Star nodded.

‘I think I see what you mean.’

‘All of this is nothing to them,’ Mac continued.

‘They happen in spite of the world not because of it. Or anyone on it.’

Mac stared at the Rock Star.

‘As if a plague thanks its victim before causing their organs to fail.’

The Rock Star interrupted.

‘But The5 asked me to make the film and blow the Horn.’

‘You could have been anyone and all those other things anything,’ continued Mac.

‘In fact,’ he boomed again, ’there is no you in any of this. You are simply the fool causing us to expend valuable breath.’

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The audience from the fateful concert were discovered the next morning in the Phoenix Park Tunnel when workmen opened an old section due for development.

To their astonishment they found 80, 000 people standing silently in long lines, as if waiting for something.

Mac watched amazed as the news report showed streams of dazed people being led blinking into the daylight.

To get up and go out every morning began to take its toll on Mac.

Coming home late at night didn’t help either. He was exhausted.

Hope will give you an energy you didn’t know existed. You can carry a weight as far as you have to go.

Despair is an inverse of this and will root you to the very spot.

Each step feels like the last you can ever manage.

And then another.

Mac knew that every step he took was counted.

Accounted. Noted. Recorded.

Strangers would stare at him.

Fixing their gaze.

Smirking. Mocking.

He heard a silent voice.

‘You’ll never find her. She’s gone for good.’

That may very well be the case,’ replied Mac, ‘but I doubted her once and will not ever again.’

Steeling himself for the task, Mac set out the next morning.

Armed with an umbrella and his politest manner.

Mac walked the crowded streets. Jostled and bothered. Elderly but intent. Miles every day. Following crowds. Peeling back sleeping bags.

Every laneway. And alley.

Each and every twitten.

What with the weeds and the new visitors the city swelled, creaking.

Crowded. Hostile. Noisome. At night the streets are lined with people trying to sleep. Or choosing not to.

Mac watched from his window. A lonely vigil. Scanning the crowds.

Hoping that one face from the thousands would speak to him.

‘I swore I would protect her,’ he sobbed. ‘What use a man like me?’