Chapter 2

 

Andy is right about the shop getting busier later on. Harried parents come in on their way home from work, laden down with bags of shopping, desperate for something to keep the kids quiet after dinner. Between seven and eight, the teens appear. Still too young to go out, they want the perfect video for a night in with friends. The young lovers come later, looking for an excuse to curl up together on the couch. After the rush ends around eleven, Andy says he’s done and asks me to close at midnight.

His request makes me uneasy but I can’t afford to fall out with my boss on my first day, so I let him show me what needs to be done.

“You’ll do well here,” he claps me on the shoulder as he leaves. His words confirm my suspicions. He’s not supposed to leave me on my own but I just nod and watch him disappear down the street.

A rowdy crowd, on the way back to someone’s gaff from the pub, come in half an hour later and I wish Andy was there to help. Eventually they get what they want and leave, though I feel a bit shaky after they are gone. Then a few stragglers come in just before midnight. Andy would probably state firmly that we were closed, but he’s not here. Without his authority, I don’t like to turn them away. By the time I finally lock the door behind me, it’s close to one in the morning.

I can’t help wondering if that’s why my boss was so anxious to get away early, especially since this is pretty much the exact same time the pubs in Drimshanra empty out into the streets. With a shiver, I button up my navy reefer and pull the collar up around my ears. It’s not just to keep out the cold drizzle, but to blend into the night. An odour of urine and vomit oozes from darkened doorways and you can feel the pulse of danger flicker in the air.

Ahead of me, two young guys are thrown from a bar in a tangle of limbs.

“I’ll get you yet, you two ends of a knob.” One of them hauls himself to his feet and shakes his fist at the bouncer.

“Yeah.” The other crawls out of the gutter.

“Fuck off, Sledge,” the bouncer replies, “and don’t let me catch you with any of your underage friends in here again.”

It’s too late to cross the street, it would only draw attention to myself. I put my head down and quicken my pace, hoping Sledge and his pal don’t notice me. Main Street is too busy, too bright, with nowhere to hide. By taking the short cut, I can melt into the shadows, and pass unnoticed in the dark. I hunch my shoulders tighter into my coat and quicken my step. Leaving Main Street is a mistake. The real danger lingers in dark alleys like this one.

“The gay bar!” I hear a shout behind me and press myself in against the metal shutter of a closed shop, as Sledge barrels by.

“Yeah, get the poofters.” His friend is hot on his heels.

The two disappear out of sight around the corner and I exhale with relief. My route home is the same way they’ve gone, but I follow at a slow pace, giving them plenty of time to get ahead of me.

The back streets aren’t as quiet as I expect. Instead, they are lined with the kind of places that come alive at night but are invisible when the shutters are down during the day. The gay bar must be somewhere along here. I wonder if Sledge and his friend will get in and what kind of havoc they’ll wreak if they do.

As I walk on up the street, the Saturday night revels fade into the distance behind me. Home is close now, just around the corner, and, thankfully, there’s no sign of Sledge or his friend. They must have found somewhere to go after all.

My body is trembling and I can’t wait to get inside the house and bolt the door behind me. It’s funny, I didn’t expect Drimshanra to have this effect on me, not after the estate we lived on in Dublin, but it’s like something evil and malevolent is lurking in the shadows here.

As I round the final corner, I hear a scuffle and faint shouts in the distance, the distinct sound of feet running away, boots pounding the pavement. Sledge and his friend. It has to be. Gone.

Something moves at the end of the street, catching my eye. A heap of black, like a plastic sack, burst and spewing out its contents. Except as I draw closer, I see it’s not a black plastic sack. It’s a person curled up in agony, with blood pooling on the street around him.

I try not to look, try not to step in it.

Want to avoid the whole thing.

It’s been a long day and I wish it was over.

So close to home, almost in bed, where I can pull the covers over my head and pretend the assault didn't happen, the way I used to when Dad was still around.

The figure shifts slightly and lets out a low moan.

It’s no good, I’m not seven years old any more.

I can’t ignore this one.

“Wait there,” I say, not that he looks capable of going anywhere, “I’ll be right back.”

The house is just a few doors down, and I silently let myself in so as not to wake my mother. I lift the receiver of the phone in the cramped hallway, dial 999, and ask for an ambulance.

Then I dash into my room, whisk the duvet off my bed and sprint back outside. It’s still raining, not heavily, just a damp persistent drizzle that chills to the core. I hope he’s still alive as I cover him up as best I can. Shivering, my teeth chattering, I sit on the kerb beside him and wait for the ambulance.

“You did well to cover him up,” a burly paramedic says as they lift him onto the stretcher. “They made some mess of him but I don’t think anything is broken. Maybe a cracked rib.”

But I’m not listening. For the first time, I can see the boy’s face through the matted hair and streaks of blood. He’s young, about my age, and he looks so pale and vulnerable. Why would anyone pick on him in such a brutal way?

“Do you know him?”

I shake my head.

“Did you see what happened?” the paramedic asks me then.

“No, not exactly.”

“You’d better come with us.”

I climb into the ambulance beside the stretcher.

Under the paramedics’ care, the boy starts to come round.

“Spike O’Toole, nice to see you back with us. Who did it this time?”

Spike ignores the question and turned to me

“My rescuer?” His voice is cracked and dry. He holds out his hand, and when I take it, he doesn’t let go. “Stay with me,” he murmurs.

“So who did it this time?” The paramedic asks again. My stomach contracts as it dawns on me that he knows Spike, that this has happened before.

“Came up on me from behind, didn’t see a thing.”

“And I suppose you didn’t see him when he hit your face either?”

“No, couldn’t focus too well.”

“What about you?” The paramedic turns to me. “Did you see anything?”

“Not exactly but…” Spike’s grip tightens in warning. The message is clear. He doesn’t want me to say anything.

“But what?” the paramedic presses for an answer

“But I was too far away. I heard someone run away.”

The guards are waiting at the hospital but Spike and I stick to our story. Neither of us saw anything.

“Not much we can do without witnesses,” the guards grumble as Spike is wheeled off for an x-ray. As they turn to leave, one of them says to me, “You can go home now if you want.”

“It’s alright, I’ll wait and see how he is.” Now that I’m involved, I feel like I have to stay and see the whole thing through. Sitting on a plastic chair in the corridor, I doze off, losing track of time. Eventually, Spike is wheeled out again and brought into a curtained-off cubicle in the overcrowded Accident and Emergency Unit. Once again I get a sense of a malevolent presence that poisons the air in Drimshanra.

“Nothing is broken,” the nurse tells me, “so he doesn’t need to be kept in.”

“Really?” I stare in surprise at the barely conscious bandaged body in the bed.

“It looks worse than it is,” she says. “Can you take him home?”

“I mean, I don’t really know…,” I start to say.

Spike interrupts me by reaching for my hand. He tries to clutch it, but his grip is too weak and his fingers fall loosely to his side. “Can you call someone to come and get me?” he asks in a hoarse whisper.

“Sure, who do you want me to call?”

“Felice Carr.