Shay was lying on his side when he woke.
He immediately wished he hadn’t. His forehead pounded. He felt it would split and his brain slop out if he moved. He winced in agony. His head was all soft and bumpy above his eyes. His eyebrows were matted on one side.
He wondered had pieces of tile crunched into his skull, the pain was so bad.
But the empty sick feeling hollowing his stomach was worse than the riot in his head. He slowly pulled his knees up towards him and lay there, clenching his eyes shut, as the demons swarmed into his mind.
When he opened his eyes again, he saw Alfie: on the floor, facing him. His black eyes were not sad in a cute way now, more indifferent. The sound of the Luas stole in through an open window. It had that ghostly quality to it, like someone blowing a long breath.
Shay summoned the strength and tensed himself to move. On the third try he managed to push himself off the tiles, hoping his head wouldn’t explode. He stood, wavering, holding his hand out against the fridge. Taking steps in inches, he reached up at the shelves, pulling containers down, knocking others over. Lids and contents spilled and clattered. He searched and grabbed for paracetamol, but there was none.
Serves me fucking right.
He pressed his hands against the counter top and leaned hard. His head jangled. Something beeped.
He turned and moved, his arms stretched out before him, his flat feet clapping through the silence into the sitting room. He sat on the armrest of the couch. Squinting, he saw Charlie’s cars on the floor and Molly’s toy kitchen against the wall. Some building blocks lay scattered. His eyes began to well up again. But anger boiled too.
How could she do this to me? After all I have done, done for her?
Small voices told him that wasn’t true. He defied them and cursed in hushed spits. Anything louder would make the pounding in his head worse.
He edged towards the door and forced himself to tackle the stairs, stopping at each step.
At the top, Charlie’s and Molly’s door was wide open. Shay shivered as he entered. Bedclothes, duvets and pillows were scattered. Teddies abandoned. He stood there, for how long he didn’t know, surveying the room. He tried to recall moments with the kids, but the pounding in his head denied him that. He shuffled to his own bedroom.
Looking outside, he saw kids examining remnants of a fire. Some were trying to start new ones, raiding bins for supplies. He scanned the green, what was left of it. The individual scorch marks – he must have counted a dozen – had connected up in places. The entire triangle was now one big blackness, with just patches of grass.
He closed his eyes. Moving slowly, he sought refuge under the sheets.