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Thanks for this reader submitted experience of violent home invasion experienced in Dublin in the early 90’s, where I also lived for several years.
This piece is the result of a couple of email exchanges and my comments are in brackets. Jeth
It was the end of the summer of 1992 in Dublin. I wasn’t long returned from living in Amsterdam. As I was broke and hadn’t found a job yet, I moved into a shit, two roomed flat with Phil, the bass player of the band I was playing in, just off the Rathmines main thoroughfare.
Rathmines was the most densely populated area of South Central Dublin at that time. Most of the inhabitants we either students, nurses or dole bums.
We got introduced to Darren by a friend. All three of us got on well together, so it made sense that we pool our resources and get a decent flat. Phil and me gigged and looked for part time work to fill in.
(Jeth: And Darren?)
Darren, as we would find out, was a dealer.
(Jeth: You can already feel this heading south can’t you?)
We were very fortunate to get a recently renovated, large two bedroom flat, in the very upmarket area of South Central Dublin, called Rathgar. Former Presidents and members of government lived just a stones throw from our door.
(Jeth: Politicians? A drug dealer flatmate would actually raise the tone of the area a bit then. Should be fine, how wrong could it go?)
Very quickly the flat resembled a hotel lobby. There were always people coming and going, hanging out and getting stoned.
It was dark when I arrived home from work just after five thirty one evening, autumn was kicking into high gear. I opened the main front door into the common area of the building and walked up the first flight of stairs to our flat. As I opened the door, I could hear laughter and a gaggle of voices. I came through the hall and pushed open the door into the sitting room. There was a mix of familiar and new faces all sitting around with shit eating grins, red eyes and a table full of munchies. Smashing Pumpkins “I Am One” was blasting out of the stereo.
I was introduced to the newbie’s and caught up with the faces I recognised. After dinner I was just getting comfortable with a joint when the door bell rang. I got up and crossed the floor, opened the door to the hall and just as I was about to open the front door of our flat, someone began pounding on it from the other side.
Angrily, I swung the door inwards and got a punch in the face for my troubles. Before I could even recover, someone had grabbed me by the hair and started dragging me. I saw the glint of a blade coming for my throat and I instinctively raised my hands to protect myself, palms out. The knife wielder sliced through my middle finger on my right hand.
(Jeth: The art of hair pulling. In training halls guys cut their hair to stop it getting messed up but in reality, it will be used as a handle, beards too. It’s the first thing that they go for and can be a nightmare to get out of in the context of also defending a knife. The flip side to remember of course is that it’s the knife and not the hair/ beard pulling that will really change things fast.
The door is also an under considered location for either ambush or interview.
I knew a guy once who opened the door and had an axe stuck in his forehead – years later his skull was still shaped with a large, vertical indented line!
Several experiences I‘ve had all started at the door. It’s worth remembering that expecting someone friendly and forgoing a check first before opening can be a deciding factor in what happens to you next. Always check, even if you’re expecting someone, those are precious moments of awareness that you are throwing away as it’s not always “opportunity” knocking…)
I was in full on panic mode. WHAT THE FUCK. I was dragged to the centre of the sitting room floor and everyone, except Darren, froze.
(Jeth: Did his drug dealer training kick into action and save the day?)
Darren had bolted for the bathroom and had locked the door.
There were three assailants and they started tearing our flat up, taking the dope that was on the table and screaming Darren’s name over and over. I was still being held prisoner with the blade against my now slick, red fingers.
The guy who was holding me was a big, tall, red headed, mean looking fucker. He kept calling Darren’s name. Saying that if he didn’t come out, he was going to slice me up and beat the shit out of everyone in the room. I thought I was a goner. The guy had me in a death grip. With a combination of his strength and my fear, I was powerless to move.
Inexplicably, the three attackers started fighting amongst themselves. It started off with them shouting at each other. One of the two guys not holding me threw a punch at the other and then the ginger giant jumped into to break it up.
(Jeth: There’s an idea that groups are just groups but there can be big differences in terms of commitment and motivation and this is always an angle to consider if you are defending yourself against them.
One does all the talking, others hang back, less committed and look to the talker to act as director. Others again are just waiting for the opportunity to hurt someone – this one is the biggest immediate threat to you. They may be immediately next to the talker – ready to go, or be the talker themselves.)
I back peddled into the kitchen and put the table between me and them. I looked around the room and saw sheer terror on everyone’s faces. Then as abruptly as it all started, it was over. They just left, saying they’d get Darren some other time.
(Jeth: This is another aspect of the chaos of events like this, that they don’t always have a conclusion and you can be left with the very real fear of a return visit or chance encounter in the street etc).
Darren stayed in the bathroom for another fifteen minutes and in that time I had bandaged up my finger. We all just looked at each other. “What the fuck was that all about. What just happened?”
A few minutes later someone was knocking on our flat door and we all drew back in fear. Had they come back? Someone bravely went to look and it was Brendan, a friend. “Hey, how’s it going? Got any smoke.” He saw the terror stricken faces and my bandaged hand.
“What happened?” He asked.
We told him, just as the brave hero, Darren, tentatively peeped out from his safe haven.
I was pissed off.
“Darren. What the fuck have you dragged us into?”
“Ah, it’s cool man. It’ll blow over. It was just me they were after.”
“So, how come I’m the one with a black eye, a sliced up hand and almost had my throat slit.”
(Jeth: Smashing Pumpkins “I Am One” seemed like foreshadowing then, right?)
The room cleared very quickly after that. There was only myself, my two flat mates and Brendan, the new arrival.
We were in fear for the rest of the night that they’d come back. Close to midnight, Brendan decided to hit the road. As he was leaving, I noticed that my leather jacket was not hanging up where I left it.
I let Brendan out and searched the flat from top to bottom, no sign of it. I was seriously pissed off now. I twigged the fact that the guys who broke in took it on their way out. I turned on Darren and gave him an ear bashing, demanding that he get my jacket back.
He assured me that it was just a turf war and that they were all supplied by the same person and he would sort it out. Two days later he arrived home with my jacket.
(Jeth: Actually, we share the experience of having lived with drug dealers in the same city and at the same time.
It often seems that hard times in life are often followed by… even worse times. It’s kind of like bad luck dominoes sometimes. One of the lowest points in my life and I’m glad I managed to get the hell out of there.
A room I rented was above a private bar commonly known to be owned by “Da Boys” and the first I knew of my housemate’s profession was when I got home late from work on a Sunday night and nearly got murdered in his place when there was a similar knock at the door from a very bad situation that had caught up with him.
It was common knowledge in Dublin at the time that no one partied without paying a licence to some very heavy people from gangland to paramilitary levels. And this was house parties not just small clubs and so on. Even the hotdogs you bought after the pub were sold by people paying “insurance” premiums.
Severe beating …or worse, befell those that ignored this rule. One shouldn’t confuse this with some romantic notion of street justice for scumbag dealers, a lot of innocent people got caught-up and hurt in the process which was all about control of money.
Some small-time idiot making a quick “punt” would get noticed and everyone around him could end up paying too.
Even low-level mouth breathers like the guys that crashed this party were dangerous enough.
Epilogue:
There’s an amusing twist to this as following another email exchange, it transpires that Darren remodelled himself years later as an MMA fighter also running a training business.
Perhaps any potential opponents, seeking a psychological advantage may wish to forgo the traditional entrance music and instead enter the cage to the sound of a doorbell?
Thanks for sending this to me and for the resulting flashbacks!
Jeth)
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Thanks, Jeth