‘Hang on, mate, I didn’t mean go into complete isolation.’ Harry laughed, but there was an edge to him that perhaps meant he realised that Dan was actually serious about this.
‘It’s the land of saints and scholars. Where better to find my muse?’
‘Yes, but it’s hardly the sort of place your mates are going to be able to pop over to for a weekend, now is it? What’s wrong with Snowdonia or the Highlands?’
‘Ah, come on, Harry, if I’m going to do this, I might as well do it properly.’ And even if his head was still hurting and his back was aching, Dan felt as if there might be something to look forward to. He drank back the contents of the mug and stood up – suddenly he had things to do. There were calls to make, perhaps a new future to look forward to and maybe even some closure on what had gone before. ‘I’ll see about booking something today and I’ll let you know before I leave.’
5
Niall
Niall searched frantically in each of the bags. ‘How could you leave it behind?’ he spat at his mother, his voice almost on breaking point.
‘I didn’t leave it behind, I just…’ He’d placed his games console on the stairs, waiting to drop it in the centre of the large carry-on bag that years ago they’d bought for going to Spain – back when they were a real family and did real family things together. Whoever forgot to pack it in the car didn’t really matter, but he was much too angry to admit this. All he could think of was that it was not in Ballycove. He’d only noticed it was missing when he went to unpack his bags on the bed. It added to his frustration that the room was tiny, and that most of his video games would have to be stacked on the floor. Not that those were much use without his console. On a tall locker, he’d placed the huge television he’d brought from his own room in Dublin. The TV was a gift from his father, probably to assuage his guilt at taking off for Australia and leaving him here with his mother. We can Skype each other; it’ll be like I’m still here. Yeah. Right. Sure, it will.
‘Just bloody forget it,’ Niall said and he stomped up the stairs leaving his mother probably livid and his grandmother open-mouthed. It was no good though; he couldn’t settle in the tiny room. Nothing here felt like home and the only bit of technology he had was the smart phone his dad had given him for Christmas. He lay on the bed, browsing and generally absorbed in the world it led him into. He could hear his mother and his grandmother chatting away happily downstairs. It was all very well for them, catching up; what was he meant to do if they were staying here for a couple of days? God, he could die of boredom here.
He pulled his bedroom window tight, yanked over the curtains, so when his mother peered into the room, she assumed he’d fallen asleep. She closed the door gently with a click and with the finality of that soft sound, her footsteps moving lightly about the hall opposite told him she was turning in for the night. It was early and he wasn’t tired yet. After all, if they were at home, he’d often spend twelve hours soaking up game time at the weekend if his mother was called in for another shift. It was nothing unusual for his mother to leave him in his room. It was, he supposed easier than the ongoing argument of trying to get him to leave for anything much more than dinner.
As the night began to pull in around the cottage, he thought he would go mad. There was nothing to do in this place; he missed his games console and the people who passed as his friends. Quite simply, he missed being at home, where he could wander down to the fridge that contained recognisable fast foods and gallons of milk or juice and the special-brand coffee his mother loved and he’d acquired a taste for. He had to get out of here. He pulled on his shoes and jacket and made his way towards the front door, letting himself out with hardly a sound. He almost crashed into an old biddy from up the road. The doctor’s wife. He’d met her once, when her husband had fallen badly on his way home from the pub. The old doctor had been a right tosser, but of course, his gran had insisted they help him home. It was only up the road, that big musty house of theirs.
Mrs O’Shea had opened the door for them, led them up the long staircase, uneven steps catching them out occasionally. She’d said thank you at the finish, as if they’d just installed a new burglar alarm for her and Niall had marvelled at her reserve. She was from another age, he supposed, all pearls and set hair and probably afternoon tea and mothballs. She looked different today, walking along the street – smaller, inconsequential, as if the life had been blown out of her. Maybe he spotted tears in her eyes, but he didn’t look too closely. He had worries of his own to consider.