“Up there, you see, past the trees. We grew maize and sweet potatoes and some tea. I used to go up there with Shema, I’d watch him pick the tea. I guess I was a lazy bastard, even then.”
He laughed. Martin didn’t say anything.
The fields were overgrown now, the tea bushes dead, but the mountains rose up just the same behind them, the sun was just as hot, and the air was the same, going into his same lungs. Maybe it’s just me, he thought. Maybe what I am is just me, wherever I’ve been. As long as I breathe, I will carry all these places with me. That’s who I am. That’s where I’m from.
There was something else in the grass. Theo bent down. It was his scooter, intact, forgotten, not valuable enough to be taken.
He turned to Martin.
“This is mine. I rode this, here, when I was seven. This is mine. Jesus Christ, it’s still here.”
Theo sped down the slope. He closed his eyes and he could feel the red dust rising from the ground to tickle his nose. The wind was pulling tears from his eyes and he was going so fast the sun couldn’t lay its hand on him. His own shadow couldn’t keep up as he flew through time and space and all the dimensions, going faster and faster until he felt like he was finally outrunning himself.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
My deepest thanks to Tom Chalmers, Lauren Parsons and the team at Legend Press for giving me another chance to get what’s in my head onto paper and, most importantly, for setting a deadline. I am especially grateful to Lauren for her superb editing and guidance.
The lines from ‘Epic’ by Patrick Kavanagh are quoted from Collected Poems, edited by Antoinette Quinn (Allen Lane, 2004), by kind permission of the Trustees of the Estate of the late Katherine B. Kavanagh, through the Jonathan Williams Literary Agency. Thank you very much.
The extract from Louis MacNeice’s ‘Dublin’ is quoted from Collected Poems, published by Faber & Faber, through the David Higham agency. Thank you so much.
Thank you to my parents, Máirtín and Máire, for teaching me to be curious and to never give up, and for letting me disappear for hours to chase herons through the fields. Thank you to Martina, Gearóidín, Máirtín, Esther, Máirín and Antaine for bringing so much laughter into my life. And for driving me, everywhere.
Writing is a lonely endeavour. It’s a cliché but, like all the best ones, it’s true. Thank you to Francis, Sue, Ann and all my extended family and friends for your unwavering support through the launch of my first novel. Your kind words and generous praise made all the heartache seem so worthwhile, I decided to do it again.
As ever, this book is dedicated to two inspirational young women: Lucy and Rachel. Thanks, girls, for holding off on getting a puppy until I’d written a first draft, at least.
Finally to David, my ever-faithful first reader and the poor soul condemned to listen to my mid-novel ranting every time: You have my undying gratitude and love.
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Rain Falls on Everyone Page 29