The thud of the toddler’s head against the window dragged Shay away from his thoughts.
The child swayed on his mother’s lap as the Luas snaked around the hospital. She leaned against the window, her eyes half closed, her mouth open. One hand clasped a roll, the other was curved loosely around the boy.
Shay stared absently at them as a familiar record played in his mind.
How the fuck am I going to get my life back? And how much longer is it going to take?
Another thud. The mother moved, her loop earrings jangling. She took a bite out of her roll and slumped back, chewing slowly like a camel.
Shay was on his way back from college. He went to the meeting, as usual, and gave his report. He was told he was doing well. But, he knew they wanted more from him.
The Luas stopped and he watched two girls in roller-skates clatter on.
This was all part of his rehabilitation, he told himself; the long payback for what he had done.
Yes, it’s taking fucking ages. Yes, it’s wrecking Lisa’s head. But there’s no other way.
Another thud, louder this time.
Shay looked over at the child. The boy cried, twisting his head around for attention.
For fuck’s sake.
He reached across and tapped the mother on the shoulder, slipping back before she roused.
‘Whaaaa?’
The word sounded like it had been pulled out of her mouth by a rope. Her eyes opened, her vision trailing behind.
‘What is it, chicken?’ she said to her son. She pushed the sagging bread against the child’s mouth. ‘Here, have some roll.’ The boy struggled to cry, breathe and take the roll all at the same time.
The girls on the roller-skates rattled past, slapping off the sides of the seats on the tram.
He looked at the time on his phone. He had to collect the kids. Their ages tumbled around his mind like a lottery machine. Molly was four, Charlie a year behind.
They were soaking up everything the area had to offer, like proverbial sponges.
I’m running out of time. If I don’t deliver the goods, the kids will end up being stuck here.
As Shay approached with the kids, seagulls flapped and squawked over a man scattering bread into the canal, snatching what was meant for the swans.
‘Daddy, who put that there?’ Molly asked, pushing her long blonde hair away from her face.
Shay squinted at the canal. A child’s high chair had been dumped; the top half of it stuck up out of the waters. The canary yellowness of the plastic chair added to the incongruity of the sight.
‘Bold boys?’ Charlie asked, looking up at him.
Shay nodded. You couldn’t step out the door without being confronted by ‘colour’, as he called it.
A loud rev and shouting from behind caused him to turn around. A boy racer was leaning forward in an old banger bombing towards a roundabout. A young fella on the path shouted at him and rolled his fists in the air.
‘Daddy, it’s like a butterfly.’
Molly had run down the path and stood staring at a tree. She pointed to a blue plastic bag flapping against the trunk. A smile opened across her face. The wind puffed the bag in and out and made it dance against the bark, until another gust sent it off. The kids screamed after it.
‘Ah, isn’t it me favourite children.’
Shay recognised Ms Moore’s raspy voice. The Hugging Mama, the kids called her. They ran to her and wrapped themselves inside her layers of coats. Shay looked down at her white runners as they adjusted to take the force.
She had a rollie balanced between fingers bent with arthritis. She rummaged deep into assorted pockets with her free hand. The kids inched closer, all quiet now. She looked up and gave Shay a wink.
‘Let’s see if I have anything here for youse.’
When they moved into the area, Ms Moore had dropped a card through their letterbox, a bright vase of flowers on the front. Inside were the words ‘welcome to the area’. It was such a nice thing to do, and seemed to be a good omen.
‘Now, there youse go,’ she said, digging out a crumpled bag of jellies. Wine gums, Shay could tell.
She pressed Molly in against her with her smoking hand and rubbed Charlie’s mop of black hair with the other. She mumbled a few words. It was a quick prayer, which she often did. Then she waved goodbye.
The kids devoured the jellies, sharing glances at each other, their eyes sparkling at the surprise treat. Shay motioned forward, throwing the kids’ bags up over his shoulders.
As Molly and Charlie scampered off, he looked across the canal at the massive crane looming on the skyline on the far side.
It hadn’t moved since they came here. It hung like a metallic spectre over the remains of James Connolly flats.
Modern apartments were to replace the flats, a mixture of social and rented housing, Shay recalled. A model of public–private partnership, everyone was told. The developer would build the apartments, the council would rent them and the tenants of the flats, after decades of neglect, would at last have a decent place to live. But it was a lie. The developer, owing the banks millions, went under. He was fine, Shay reminded himself, if the photos in the papers of him and his wife out shopping in New York were anything to go by.
The flats had almost all been knocked down when the builder went belly up, apart from one solitary tower. Boulders and rocks from the demolitions lay in mounds, half protected with broken railings, separated by filthy pools of liquid. It was a popular play area for kids.
Dealers had scattered from the flats. Many set up base up and down the canal, along the greens and parks, all fighting for a patch from those who controlled it: the Canal Gang.
‘Look, Dad, a goldfish,’ Molly said, pointing into the waters.
But Shay could only see cans and plastic bottles bobbing amid all the other rubbish.
He looked over at a group of young fellas at the next lock, gathered on the other side of the canal. One of the crews at work, he thought.
He watched thin shapes approach, one of them struggling on a crutch.
He knew the routine. The buyer would text the crew leader in advance what they wanted. He’d get his mate to go to the stash, hidden in a bush or behind the block of a wall, get the deal and leave it on the ground. The buyer would arrive, hand over the cash, go to the allotted area, pick up the drugs and scurry off. All in broad daylight.
As he neared, Shay took a mental note of who was there. He knew most of them, their faces and nicknames at least. There was a smaller figure leaning against the lock gate, looking down into the waters.
The boy had his back to him, but Shay knew exactly who he was.