Chapter 2

 

One Month later

‘Ireland,’ Mel groaned. ‘I still can’t believe I’m going to Ireland.

When you said you’d won a trip I thought Ibiza, or Majorca…or Paris, but oh-no, Eva had to go and bloody well win a trip to Ireland!’

‘Stop bitching it’s a holiday, isn’t it? And it’s free, I might add.’

‘Probably free because they couldn’t give it away.  Ireland! It's all Terry Wogan and what’s his name…?’

‘Who?’

‘You know.’

‘Who?’ Eva snapped irritably. ‘Roger Whitaker.’

‘Who?’

‘Y’know, the stuff Gran plays.’

‘He’s not Irish, you’re thinking of Val…what’s-his-face.’

‘Same thing isn’t it?’ she moaned.

‘No.’

‘You know the girls at Shake’s think I’m suffering from some form of dementia.’

‘I’d be surprised if they could even spell it,’ Eva rolled her eyes. ‘You don’t know them like I do, just because they…’

Eva stared blindly out the small cabin window letting her thoughts drown out Mel’s whining as the plane cut through the clouds over West London.

Wonder if I’ll find her…and supposing I do, what then? What do I say?

Hi, I’m Eva. Though she wouldn’t know me by that name. Hi. You don’t know me, but I used to be Firinne, Shit! I should bloody well know what to say by now. Maybe Mum was right, maybe I should have checked this out a bit more. Re-searched it better. But with what? No last known address, no contact number, nothing. All they could tell me was where she was from. Nothing else on file. A mystery woman, is Mia. What are the chances of her being there, I wonder? Someone must know her or heard of her? One way or another I know I’m going to find her. Strange why she never looked for me, though?

‘Marc was worried about me going, you know? He reckons it could be dangerous.’

‘Yeah…?’

‘You’re not listening to me, are you?’

She could be dead for all I know.

‘If I get shot or blown up, you can explain it to him,’ Mel sniffed.

Poor Mum and Dad…hopefully they won’t hate me for this. Talk about feeling like a complete bitch sitting there in front of them, discussing her. One birth cert…one lousy note…one birthday card…and one tiny photo with her holding me. It's not much. It’ll have to do, I suppose. Could be worse, could have sod-all to go on. Wonder if her hair is red like in her picture?

‘Didn’t know what to pack, apparently it pisses rain there all the time,’ Mel muttered.

She could be bald…

‘Eva are you listening?’

Mia O’Halloran. At least the name’s unusual. Mia... Doesn’t sound Irish, wonder if it's short for something?

‘Couldn’t even buy bloody duty free. Marc wanted me to bring back some Jack Daniel’s and some aftershave. That’ll take a chunk out of my money and by the way, have you seen their money? It’s huge...like toy money,’ Mel inspected the fifty pound note in her hand.

‘Hmm…’

Wonder if she looks like me? Mum said kind of, but they only met twice. Mum said Mia didn’t find it easy to cope. No money, no family and no one to support her. I’ve been lucky really, but it could have so easily turned out differently…and where would Mia have been then?

‘How long is it from the airport to the hotel?’

I’m no mum but there’s no way I could give up like that, no matter how hard it was. I mean, look at Mum, look what she’s like. She has a freak attack if we’re a minute late. We’ve been abducted, raped and murdered, or kidnapped by some religious cult. That’s what I can’t get my head around. Don’t know if I agree with all that shit about 'no money' either.

Her mouth twitched.

So, why was it so easy to give up on me, Mia? Too much hassle probably. Mum and Dad can soften the blow all they like, but let's face it…I was just a living, breathing, burden.

‘Are you going to talk to me, Eva? Maybe you should’ve gone alone.’

Turning toward her sister, Eva sighed. How am I going to tell Mel the truth? She still thinks I won this trip in a raffle. Unusual for a girl who could normally spot a lie from a mile away. Mum knows I lied to Mel, but she’s just as happy that I’m not going alone. Mind you she nearly let it slip at the airport.

‘Be there for Eva, Mel, okay?’

‘Eh?’

‘Just understand her reasons for doing this, okay?’

‘Eh?’

If I hadn’t grabbed her arm and dragged her toward the boarding check-in counter, it doesn’t bear thinking about what Mel would’ve done if she'd found out before she was on the plane. I couldn’t even look back at Mum as we ran through the Gates, I know what I would’ve seen, if I had. God, I'm a bitch!  Well…maybe I’m more like Mia than I realise.  Stop it, Eva….stop it!

‘Well…?’

‘What?’

‘Knew you weren’t listening.’

‘What?’

‘How far is the hotel from the airport?’ she huffed. ‘Couple of miles, I think.’

‘Well that narrows it down,’ she smirked sarcastically. ‘How do I know, Mel, I’ve never been there.’

‘I have to ring Marc as soon as I get there, he’ll be so worried.’

‘He’ll probably be in the pub,’ Eva muttered looking back out the window.

‘I don’t want to hear anything you have to say about Marc, it’s quite obvious you hate him.’

‘I don’t hate him…he’s just a twat.’

‘A twat to you maybe, but I love him, so just drop it, okay?’

‘You brought him up.’

‘I’m just saying, okay?’

‘Hmm.’

‘Eva!’ she warned.

‘I said okay, didn’t I?’

‘I agreed to go with you, y’know…didn’t have to. Though Mum was acting way too weird about it all, for my liking,’ Mel frowned.

‘Bloody hell if it’s such a chore, you can always get the first plane back to that…knob.’

Mel didn’t answer. That was one option she hadn’t even considered.

Maybe I should be honest with Mel. I’d be pretty pissed-off if she lied to me about something like this. But what do I say? Besides, Mum and Dad haven’t left yet, and I’m not going to give Mum an excuse to opt out of their trip. A broad smile broke across her face.

‘What’s so funny?’  Mel asked.

‘I’m just picturing Mum in her leathers and coming back with a tattoo,’ Eva chuckled.

‘Yeah?’ Mel humoured.

Eva shook her head biting down on the corner of her lip. Aw shit! She’s already thinking about going back to that dickhead. What the hell did I suggest that for. Well, I’m not going to let her leave until Mum’s gone…no way! ‘Mel?’

‘Hmm?’

‘You never did tell me how you met Marc.’ Mel eyed her suspiciously.

‘No, seriously…tell me.’

‘You’re taking the piss.’

‘I’m not, honestly,’ she laughed.

For a brief moment Mel thought about ignoring the question, but the urge to talk about Marc suppressed her doubt. ‘Well, I was with Emma and…’

Watching Mel illuminate at the mention of his name, pained Eva to see how dependent she was on him. As far as she was concerned it was only a matter of time until, she would witness the tears…the sobbing…and the coming humiliation, she knew Marc would put her sister through. There was no way Eva would ever take the crap that Marc dished out to her sister. No man had ever dumped her, stood her up, or treated her like shit, because unlike her sister, she had a healthy dose of self worth. As far as she was concerned there wasn’t a man on Earth whom she would follow if the relationship soured. If only she could say the same for Mel. Maybe taking time out from that testosterone-filled wanker will do her good. Even if I do have to listen to how cute his hair looks after a shower. Urgh, come on plane, land!

***

‘I’m off to work, Ma,’ Robbie called out from the hall door. ‘Will you be home for tea, Rob?’

‘Not tonight, I’ll get something to eat at work.’

Eating a bag of Ned’s chips was better than sitting through another mealtime with Pat. Even though he hated leaving his mother to face Pat alone, deep down he knew that he was the catalyst that seemed to trigger Pat’s rage. It was as if Pat could barely stomach him sitting at his table, let alone eating his food. Robbie would have quite happily eaten with the dog outside in the yard given half the chance. So to avoid as much aggravation as he could, he lied, and often. In fact he had lied so much to her over the years, with the same lame excuses and half truths, about having already eaten at Doyler’s, the words just tripped out now without even thinking about it. Anything that avoided him having to eat at the same table as the man was a plus.

On many occasions he had sat in his room, his stomach growling with the hunger while he waited for the rest of the family to finish eating dinner to then, and only then, steal downstairs, slip a couple of slices of dry bread and a bottle of ketchup beneath his t-shirt and race back to his room to fill his stomach till the following morning. Having done this for so long now, it had become the norm. So working in the local chipper for the summer had an upside, at least, as now he had the perfect excuse to never have to eat in the same room with Pat again.

‘I hate you having that rubbish inside you, love,’ his mother walked toward him, drying her hands on the corner of her apron.

‘I’ll be fine, Ma, honestly. Besides, the smell alone fills me up most times, and Ned is sound for a free burger at the end of the shift,’ he humoured, knowing well Ned would charge him for ketchup by the squirt if he got the chance.

‘What time will you be home?’

‘Late, Ma, don’t wait up. I’m going over to Doyler’s after work.

See you later,’ he bent down pecking her on the cheek. Turning away, he tugged the front door shut as he left the house. As he stepped out onto the footpath that fronted the row of small houses, he glanced at his watch. Living in Eranmore’s only batch of Council houses might have meant living a stone's throw from the town  centre, but as far as he was concerned it was the only upside of living in this dump.

The houses were old, cold and damp. But more than that, in Eranmore it was considered the worst place to live. As far as the town was concerned if the State provided a home, you were a pariah. You were poor, and poor in Eranmore translated as only one thing…failure. He still remembered when that label first claimed him on the day of his First Holy Communion. He had heard the mothers forbidding their children to play with him, and though no reasons were given, he still recalled the exclusion. His mother had tried to down-play it as best she could, but when Paudie Whelan and Jack Carmody showed their understanding of what it meant to be from St. Jude’s, albeit from a 7 year olds point of view, he tasted prejudice for the first time.

‘You're dirty and you smell like a dog!’ they sang.

Robbie had been hurt and confused by the words, but more so by the fact that he was made to feel different, that somehow he was deficient and deviant in some way. He wasn’t dirty, and he didn’t smell, didn’t his Ma make him have plenty of baths, so why he was he being treated as different? At seven, he didn’t feel any different from any of the other children, but by the time he reached his final year in national school he knew all too well what it meant to not have the right address. The innocuous crime of living in St. Jude’s had given those same children, and a few others, the perfect excuse to up the ante by throwing in a few punches and kicks when the name-calling was not enough.

By that time, he knew exactly what it meant to live in St Judes. He was social debris. It took a few more years to figure out that it wasn’t just about living in St Jude’s, the lack of money or even being labelled poor. It was about an ingrained need to feel that they were somehow better. Robbie’s only solace from the daily kicking’s from Whelan and Gallagher, among others, came in the form of his drawings. Words of encouragement from a fourth class teacher on recognizing his talent, went a long way towards giving his battered self esteem a well deserved lift. It was these same sketches and coloured paintings that became pivotal to his survival. It gave him a place where he could leave behind the Pat’s, the Gallagher’s and Whelan’s of this world, and more importantly, the isolation of exclusion. It became his place to escape to whenever and however he wanted.

In those moments of creativity he was free to be wherever and whatever he wanted to be. Ironically, it was this same love of paint and colour that brought him the protection he would come to need, and it came in the form of a mouthy little Londoner named James Anthony Doyle. Having long given up on the notion of ever having a friend, Robbie had been walking into town on his own as usual, but on this rare occasion his pockets were crammed with money.

Confirmation money that his Ma had kept aside for him and well out of Pat‘s reach. With his pockets full, he knew exactly what the money would be spent on. The anticipation of buying that brand-new easel in Boyd’s shop had made him almost skip into town that day.

He could hardly contain the feelings of exhilaration coursing his soul.

A surge of adrenalin tingled through him as his legs moved from a walk to a skip, already thinking about what he would paint with the new brushes and colours he would buy. The day had started so well, so perfectly. His mother had been minding money for him, and having checked that Pat had gone for the day, and Maria safely ensconced in front of the television and out of sight, his mother had counted out the five and ten pound notes into his hand. A grand total of thirty five pounds, the most money he had ever seen in his whole life.

She had said that Boyd’s were keeping the easel for him, as it was the only one they had and she had even had a word with Jimmy Boyd himself about putting it aside. She also said that they would throw in a few proper brushes and paints too. His happiness that day had threatened to explode out through his chest as he walked toward town forcing his steps to go as slow as possible, if only to savour the euphoria, making it last for as long as possible. And then it happened.

The moment collapsed into the pit of his stomach as he saw what lay ahead. Gallagher, Whelan and Carmody were sitting on their bicycles blocking his path. They had been waiting for him, like they had every day. Cursing his own stupidity, he knew he had two choices. He could turn around and go back home, leaving behind the one thing that had set his soul alight like never before, or keep going. Either way he was screwed. If he turned they would see and follow, catching him long before he could reach the safety of home. He decided to brave it out.

‘Reject coming. Love yer pants, Dalton. Did yer Ma make `em?’ they had laughed.

Initially he had stalled, but the need to buy the one and only proper easel ever to be in Eranmore, forced him forward. Shoving his hands deeper into his pockets, he thrust the money down as far as it would go, and taking a deep breath lowered his eyes as he walked on. The three boys, straddled across their large bikes ahead of him, rolled their wheels together blocking his path. But as he side stepped them in his urgency to pass, he tripped and stumbled forward. The roar of their laughter echoed behind him as he quickened his pace, hearing movement and the voice of Ritchie Gallagher closing in behind.

‘What’s the rush, Dalton?’

Swallowing hard he focused on the High Street up ahead. His legs wanted to run as fast as they could carry him, but he had past-times learned what the chase meant to them, he knew that running would be fatal. As the sound of wheel-spokes clicked nearer, he lengthened his stride feeling the pull on his hamstrings.

‘D’you not hear me, Dalton? Are you buying more dog food for your Ma? Getting old newspaper to wipe your arse?’

‘Who cut your hair, you fucking bowl-head?’ Carmody chorused as they trailed him closely.

‘Your real Ma was a prossie!’ Whelan spat.

‘You're a dirty bastard that came out of a dirty fanny!’ they laughed.

Increasing his stride to a near run, Robbie lifted his eyes from the pavement and saw a boy of roughly the same age leaning up against the doorway of O’Callaghan's Newsagents. Fearing that he may have walked straight into a trap, he could feel the knot in his stomach tighten even more.

‘His real Ma gave him away coz he has herpes...isn't that right, herpie fucker?’ Carmody sang.

Focusing solely on the boy ahead, Robbie didn’t hear the approach behind him until it was too late. With full force, Carmody cycled up, kicking him hard into the small of his back sending him crashing down onto the pavement, slapping both his knees against the concrete. As the stones cut into his skin, ripping the thin material of his new Confirmation pants, he let out a small cry. It was Whelan’s turn next. Pedalling furiously toward Robbie, he aimed a kick to Robbie’s backside but missed, catching the side of his thigh instead. This time Robbie cried out clutching his leg as pain ripped through his muscle.

‘Go on, Ritchie,’ the boys goaded, with excitement. Without any more prompting Ritchie threw his bike to the ground and ran towards Robbie. Dragging his bruised leg beneath him, Robbie curled up and waited for the next set of blows to make contact with his body. It was then he heard the rush of footsteps coming from his right. He squeezed his eyes shut and waited for the anticipated pain to begin.

A second or two passed before he heard the snarl of an unfamiliar accent.

‘You want to kick him, eh? You're going to have to kick me first, you little wanker!’ Opening his eyes he squinted up at the boy who had been leaning against O’Callaghan's wall.   Hearing the sound of a muted thump, then a gasp, his eyes widened just as Ritchie doubled over clutching his stomach. Whelan and Carmody let their bikes clatter to the ground running toward their friend and Robbie.

Gawping with terrified surprise, Robbie watched as the stranger ran at them using his fists and legs simultaneously, dropping them both to the ground in seconds. He turned to Robbie. Rage had whitened the boy's face. Fearing he was next, Robbie shuffled backwards.

‘C'mon get up,’ the boy ordered. ‘Get up, I said!’

Muted in shock, he reached out to the extended hand and gripped it, ignoring the sharp sting piercing his thigh as he hauled himself up off the ground. Standing face to face with the blonde-haired boy, he wavered slightly on his feet.

‘You’re dead, Dalton,’ Whelan whimpered, crumpled up on the ground.

‘Touch him, and I’ll finish you off, you little wanker!’ the boy brought phlegm from his throat and spat the green fluid onto the side of Carmody’s face.

‘C’mon,’ he barked again beckoning Robbie with a jerk of the head. Though the boy walked slowly on, Robbie found it difficult to keep up, turning his head back every so often to double check that his tormentors were still lying flat out behind him.

‘Stop looking at them, will you?’ the boy snapped.

Robbie obeyed and looked no more. Even as they approached the newsagents, Robbie still followed, perplexed by what had just happened.

‘C’mon inside, mate,’ he added though this time his words were gentle. Following him into the shop, he avoided the eyes of Mr’s O’Callaghan.

‘Nan, we’re just going into the back,’ the blonde-haired boy quipped.

Mr’s O’Callaghan watched, puzzled and bemused.

‘Okay, James, there’s some lemonade in the fridge for you and Mr Robbie Dalton.’

Robbie, hearing the nuance in her voice followed James through to the back of the shop, keeping his head down as he passed her by.

‘So, Robbie’s your name, eh?’ the boy asked. Robbie nodded.

‘Want some lemonade, Robbie?’ He nodded again.

‘Hungry?’ Robbie shrugged.

‘Talk a lot, don’t you?’

Robbie let the smallest of smiles come to his lips.

‘Here have some of these,’ James pushed a plastic box toward him full to the brim with every type of biscuit, cake, and chocolate bar, he had ever salivated over.

‘Er, won’t Mr’s O’Callaghan mind?’ Robbie gasped. ‘Nan…? Why should she?’

Robbie wasn’t sure what to do. He was hungry, too hungry to deny himself one of the goodies, but to take the big bar of Dairy Milk that had surfaced to the top of the pile would be greedy. So he took a single biscuit instead. ‘Thanks.’

‘I’m Jamie, by the way, me Nan owns the shop.’

‘Oh,’ Robbie acknowledged through a mouthful of biscuit. Jamie handed him a glass of fizzing lemonade and both boys gulped down the cold liquid in seconds.

‘Needed that, eh?’ Robbie nodded again.

‘Do you want to see my Nan's new bird, he’s called Charlie.’

‘Er, okay,’ he agreed uneasily. None of this was familiar to him. Nobody, his age at least, ever showed the slightest interest in talking to him, the fact that the stranger next to him did so with such blatant ease, made him suspicious. Walking through to another adjoining room Robbie couldn’t help but notice the newness of the furniture, the clean unworn carpets, the smell of new in the small room.

Hesitating at the door, he quickly slipped out of his shoes. Jamie smiled.

‘Don’t have to do that, Robbie, Nan won’t mind.’

Feeling foolish Robbie blushed but knew his Ma would have expected him to do it.

‘This is Charlie…pecks like hell, but I’m training him to talk. Hasn’t said a word yet, Nan reckons he’s just stubborn like Granddad, but me Granddad said he’s just clever, reckons he knows if he talks, Nan will talk back to him,’ Jamie grinned mischievously.

Stepping up to the cage Robbie whistled softly. Charlie responded identically. Both boys’ faces brightened with surprise.

‘Reckon he likes you, Rob.’

Robbie let a smile broaden his face and whistled again. Again Charlie copied the tune. James whistled but Charlie kept silent.

‘Bloody cheek, eh?’ Jamie laughed stroking the tail feathers through the bars.

‘Those bloke’s outside, d’you know them?’

‘They go to my school,’ Robbie replied, dropping his eyes to the ground.

‘Do they always do that?’ Robbie  nodded. ‘Shouldn’t let them, mate.’

That it wasn’t a matter of choice, he chose not to say.

‘Stick with me, mate, and they won’t do it again,’ Jamie declared. ‘But you don’t live here,’ the words tumbled out of Robbie's mouth.

‘Do now.’

Robbie looked at him.

‘Don’t you live in England?’ He asked, putting the accent to the place.

‘Did, but me Mum and Dad split up, so me Mum's come back here.’

‘Oh,’ Robbie swallowed hard, astounded that Jamie found it so easy to share information that would have shamed the most liberal in his town.

‘Do you miss it…England?’ he added quickly.

‘Miss me Dad and me mates, but not Hackney, that’s where I lived. C’mon let's get some more biscuits,’ Jamie announced after a short silence.

Looking back, he knew that Doyler had nothing to gain by stepping in that day to stop the kicking Gallagher and his friends had waiting for him, but perhaps he felt a kinship in some way with a fellow outsider. Maybe it was obvious to Jamie just how outside Robbie was even in his own community, and that between the two of them, they could each support the other.

Though Robbie failed to see how Jamie would ever need support from him or anyone else for that matter. Still, Robbie’s life had changed that day and so much for the better, and for that he would be eternally grateful to the cocky little Londoner. In the beginning Robbie had laughed at Jamie Doyle's total disregard to what anyone thought in Eranmore. Coming to be known as Doyler, it amazed Robbie that nothing and nobody intimidated him. Doyler judged no one. It didn’t matter to him if you lived in a shoe on the wrong side of town or one of the largest houses overlooking the bay. It didn’t matter to him what you had or didn't have. All that mattered to Doyler was loyalty, and Robbie happily supplied it tenfold to his one and only friend. Loyalty aside though they were, and still remained, very different in looks and personality.

As the years passed, Robbie, still thin as a rake, had shot up to just over six feet tall. His hair had grown much longer, in fact it was way past his shoulders now, which hid the deepest brown eyes and perfectly full mouth that had yet to be noticed by the girls at St Bridget’s. Doyler on the other hand, barely reached Robbie's shoulder, but had broadened with age, though his hair was now a dark yellow rather than the white-blonde he had come to Eranmore with as a boy. And with the combination of piercing blue eyes and thick set muscular arms, the girls in St Bridget’s had a waiting list to be out with Jamie Doyler for a night.

It hadn’t taken Robbie long to absorb a healthy dose of Doyler’s confidence either, and gradually he found that the abuse had come to a stop. Gallagher, Whelan and Carmody would chance-their-arm now and again, but because Doyler, and by default Robbie, were popular in school, the bullying stopped. Now that their time together was coming to a close, Robbie swore he would make the most of the summer ahead and enjoy perhaps the last free time they would share. It was only a few months until their exam results decided their fates, but one thing he was sure about, Eranmore would be lucky to ever see him again. Reaching the corner of Main Street he could smell the night's work that lay ahead, reminding him of what else he wouldn’t miss about this town. Stepping into Ned’s Chip Shop and seeing a short queue building up, he hung up his jacket and tied an oil- spattered apron around his waist.

‘Hiya Rob, thanks for coming in early. Phil rang. There’s a Stag Party from Galway on their way, half cut already, and it’s not even six o’clock,’ Ned grinned.

‘No wonder you didn’t tell me earlier.’

‘Pays the wages, Rob.’

‘Suppose.’

Ned nudged him with his elbow. ‘How else is Picasso going live, eh?’

‘Picasso didn’t fry chips,’ Robbie added.

‘Might have, sure aren’t fries French...French fries?’

‘Trust me, Ned, Picasso didn’t fry chips for a living. By the way you still haven’t told me how you get your information about all these bus-loads coming to Eranmore.’

Ned tapped his nose. ‘You gotta to know the right people.’

‘How much is their cut?’ he smirked.

‘A plate of Ned’s finest curry chip,’ Ned winked. ‘Great incentive…’ Robbie shrugged.

‘Cheeky fecker,’ Ned laughed.

‘You forget, it’s me that cooks it.’

‘And a grand job ya do too. Now shut up giving out and earn me some money,’ Ned slapped Robbie playfully on the shoulder.

‘How about a raise, Ned?’ Robbie asked, as he did every night since he came through the door.

‘Sure, Rob. Stand on that chair over there,’ Ned roared with laughter.

‘Funny,’ Robbie shook his head wearily.

‘Miserable fecker, where’s your sense of humour, eh?’ Ned elbowed Robbie in the arm.

‘In my pay packet,’ Robbie muttered, watching Ned exit through the front door leaving him to serve the growing queue alone.

***

Pulling the key out of the ignition, Simone tilted the rear-view mirror toward her, checking her reflection one last time. Smoothing the length of her brow, just in case any mutinous hairs threatened the perfectly plucked arch, she ran her finger slowly across each one.

Blotting her blood-red Dior’d lips together, she knew she was ready. Happy with the final check, she snapped the steering wheel into lock and stepped out from the car taking with her a bottle of Sauvignon, some Lilies, her handbag, a holdall, and with arms overloaded she tottered over to the front door groaning loudly when she saw the bell. ‘Shit, Mia, you and your stupid bell-pull thingy,’ she griped. The authentic iron chain and hand-grip, was a leftover from the days of the British magistrate, and had been hanging for over two hundred years outside the door.

It was a rusty prehistoric monstrosity, according to Simone, and Mia had no inte