I lost my wallet on a wet Thursday evening in Dublin, the kind of rain that doesn’t fall so much as hang in the air and slowly enter your bones. I had finished a late shift near Grafton Street, stopped for milk and bread, and was halfway to the Luas at St Stephen’s Green when I realised the familiar weight was gone from my coat pocket.
It’s strange how quickly your mind becomes a courtroom. I accused everyone I had passed. The lads smoking outside the pub. The woman who bumped my shoulder near the crossing. Even the man sitting under the shopfront with a paper cup between his shoes, though he hadn’t so much as looked at me. I patted every pocket again and again, as if panic could make leather reappear.
Inside the wallet was my bank card, my driver’s licence, my Leap card, and €185 in cash. The cash mattered most, not because it was a fortune, but because it was already spoken for. It was my mother’s prescription money and a bit towards the electricity. I had been trying to keep my life tidy for once, to not be the person always saying, “I’ll sort it next week.” Standing there in the rain, I felt twelve years old.
I retraced my steps all the way back to the shop, asking at the till, checking the floor, looking under the newspaper stand like a lunatic. Nothing. The cashier gave me that soft Dublin look, half sympathy, half “you poor eejit,” and told me to cancel my cards. I rang the bank with numb fingers and stood under the awning while people flowed around me, warm in scarves, carrying takeaway coffees and plans.
When I got home to Drumcondra, I was angry in the ugly way people get angry when they are frightened. I snapped at my flatmate for asking if I was alright. I told myself whoever had it was already in a shop tapping my card, or down an alley counting my mother’s money. I went to bed with my clothes still damp, convinced the city had taken something from me.
The next morning, there was a message request on Facebook from a name I didn’t recognise. It said, “Hi, I found something belonging to you. I think it’s important. Can you meet near the GPO at 11?” I almost ignored it, thinking it was a scam, but the message included my middle name, which only appeared on my licence. My stomach lifted and dropped at the same time.
I went into town early. O’Connell Street was busy and bright after the rain, buses hissing at the kerb, pigeons acting like they owned the place. Near the GPO, I saw him before he saw me. He was sitting with a backpack beside him and a blanket folded carefully under his arm. He looked about fifty, though life can add years unfairly. His beard was grey at the edges, his coat too thin for January, and in his hand was my brown wallet.
“Are you Mark?” he asked.
I nodded, suddenly embarrassed by every thought I’d had the night before.
He handed it over like it was a parcel of eggs. “Check it there. Make sure it’s all in it.”
Everything was there. Cards, licence, receipts I should have thrown away, and the €185, still folded behind the photo of my niece. Not one euro missing. I must have looked stupid, opening and closing the wallet, counting without meaning to count.
“I found it near Stephen’s Green,” he said. “It was under the bench, half in a puddle. I was going to hand it in, but I saw the address and then
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