I met Darren at Fitzgibbon Street Garda station and he introduced me to his friends. "He's a reporter," he explained. "He wants to know about homelessness and drugs 'n' all." Fergus raised his bloodshot eyes and shot a defiant glare at me. "You want to know about drugs?" He whipped up his sleeves to elbow level, exposing a twin set of painful looking needle-holes. "This is all you need to know." "Don't be a bollix," said Darren, "he only wants to talk."
The five boys present are all veterans of the "out-of-hours" service, except for 15-year-old Mark, the new kid on the block. Ronan is 15, too - at least, that's about as much as he can say for the moment. He slumps into a corner of the waiting-room, his drooped head bobbing left and right.
Fergus - who bared his arms so dramatically earlier on - is in poor shape now. Stevo says he's worried he is going to get "strung out". They were introduced to heroin by other residents of a hostel, and go through as much as £50 worth a day when they have cash.
Stevo has got reason to be worried: they buried a 16-year-old friend who died following an overdose only three months before.
They get a weekly allowance of £35 from the community welfare office in Charles Street on Dublin's quays. This is supplemented by stealing: dips (pickpocketing), snatches (of handbags), muggings, jump-overs (shop hold-ups), cars. Darren claims to have never used violence or a syringe. He's sorry for the victims, but, hey, it's part of survival.
Ronan starts to nod off, his head bobbing up and down restlessly. The others try to revive him: if the social workers see that Ronan and Fergus are stoned, they won't get beds tonight.
And even if they do, they're out on the streets at 10 o'clock the next morning and must wait until 8 p.m. to sign up for the ritual again. Sometimes they go to The Extension, a sort of youth club run by Focus Ireland during the day. If they don't go to The Extension, instant boredom relief is provided by drugs: hash, heroin, tablets.
A garda pokes her head through the hatch. "What did I tell you about smoking?" she barks. We're not f. . . smoking," comes the chorus response. "I saw you half an hour ago," she warns, "and if you're not careful you'll be waiting on the street." The rain drumming down outside kills any inclination to continue the exchange.
Darren was once caught breaking into a car with a friend. He claims he and his friend were taken by gardai to a quiet spot, where they were beaten up. On the way back to the station, he fell asleep in the squad car, not having been placed in emergency accommodation for the previous two nights. He never, ever sleeps rough. Too many dirty old men and psychopaths. He looks for all the world like any other brand-conscious teenager, smartly turned out in clean Levis, Reebok jacket and Nike Airs. Unlike other teenagers of his age, these are the only clothes he has.
His father left his mother when she was nine months pregnant for another woman and Darren has neither forgiven nor forgotten. "Just to piss him off" he sends an anniversary card every St Stephen's Day, the day his dad left home.
Unannounced, Ronan rises unsteadily to his feet. "I'm going to get sick," he says and wobbles out the door.
Would they consider themselves junkies? No way, Fergus exclaims indignantly. Junkies are all scrawny and narky and go around scruffy. He leaps up to show off his clothes. "If you saw me going down the streets, would you think I was homeless? Look at that - Air Max, top of the range. And me jacket? F. . . serious I am, real leather 'n' all."
I disingenuously shake my head in agreement. The clothes don't give much away, it's true, but the bloodshot eyeballs and lightly sunken cheeks tell a different story.
By now it is 10.30 p.m. and still no sign of the social workers. Ronan is sitting quietly in the corner shaking furiously and his teeth chattering. "I'm OK," he says, "it's all in the head."
He confides a little more of his story. Dad is an alcoholic, he says, who used to beat him and his brothers and sister. They were all put into care, but he was "kicked out" of a home in Rathmines last year for vandalism and fighting.
"Me ma put me in care and I'm angry at her inside for that. But I still go down to see her and we get on OK. She's still me ma."
Fifteen minutes later, he has drifted off to sleep again. It's quiet now, and the uncertainty hanging in the air kills conversation. Stevo confides he is due in court in Monday, but is unsure whether the charge is for burglary or for stealing a car.
Without warning, the social workers, a man and woman, appear at the door. Ronan snaps out of sleep. Faced with a distasteful task, the man cuts to the chase. "Bad news tonight, lads. I've only got room for two. Darren, you're going to Park View, and Michael, you're in Eccles Street. Stevo, Fergus, Ronan: I'm sorry but we've nothing."
Ronan goes ballistic. "I'm only 15! What about him?" he cries, brandishing a finger at Mark. "He's always f. . . placed and he's the same age as me."
The social workers look genuinely apologetic and explain that, with the rain, there are 14 people looking for seven beds. After five minutes of argument the social workers offer to go down to the chipper and get some food.
"So what do you want?["] asks the man. "We want a f. . . bed for the night," Ronan spits back.
The social workers arrive back a few minutes later, laden with burgers, chips, batter sausages and 10 John Player. The boys lunge in, Ronan pausing only to fire off the odd snipe. "So what have you got: a king-size bed, a double, or a single?"
Then Darren and Mark are taken off in a taxi, and the remaining three move off into the wet night.