Do you know Megan Nichols? the woman asked.
Yeah, she’s a kid I saw today, Barry said. She’s a kid that I saw, I saw her today, but I don’t know her. So, no, I don’t know her.
She’s gone missing, the woman said. Every parent’s worst nightmare. Can you imagine?
No, said Barry. I mean, yes I can.
But you saw her?
I saw her in the park. In the kids’ playground. The old one near the way in.
The kids’ playground, the woman said. Alright. Would you have any idea what time that was at?
Maybe a bit after four, Barry said.
The woman leaned back in her seat.
And where exactly were you when you saw her? she asked.
I was in the kids’ playground.
You were in a kids’ playground?
No I went into the playground because I saw her there.
Barry swallowed hard.
You spoke to her?
Yeah.
Why were you speaking to this little girl, Barry?
He felt his dad turn slightly to listen to his answer.
She shouted at me to come over because she was stuck on a climbing frame. She was crying and she was stuck.
Yes, we know you spoke to her. You were seen speaking to her. Speaking to Megan Nichols.
There was a knock at the door and the woman left the table and then the room.
Dad, I’m sorry, Barry whispered, I don’t know what’s happening here, I’ve done nothing wrong at all.
Nothing wrong at all, years ago now, years ago, and so much in between. He cuts through the orange ties on another delivery that is stamped This Way Up. All the cardboard cut, all the items restocked, the notes taken, the cards read, receipts given, marking the distance between now and then. Displays rearranged, the garden furniture and the barbecues, wood-burning stoves with their artificial in-store fires, Christmas trees and the year’s new toys, engagement rings under glass, wedding rings under glass, things put in bags, things pulled out of bags, times stepping onto the bus, times stepping off the bus. Washing your clothes, drying your clothes, getting them dirty again.
The woman came back in, apologetic. The guy looked at her and she nodded.
So, the woman said, you say that Megan Nichols was stuck.
I got her down from the climbing frame. She was stuck on the climbing frame.
So why couldn’t she just get down herself?
Because she was stuck. I had to get her down.
How, stuck?
Her knickers were caught.
The word hovered somewhere above the table.
Her pants, he said. They were caught on the frame. That’s why she couldn’t get down.
The woman leaned in a little. Did you touch her pants, her underwear, Barry? Did you touch her pants?
The guy coughed and put his head down.
I couldn’t not have touched them when I was trying to get her down from the frame. She was hooked on by her pants.
The woman said, You couldn’t not have touched her pants.
No.
You just said that you couldn’t not have touched her pants?
To get her down! Barry said. For Christ’s sake. I’m trying to tell you she was stuck on the climbing frame, the other ones had wedgied her there and I got her down. There was nothing funny about it.
And it was all being faithfully recorded.
The woman said, That was the only physical contact you had with her?
Yes, said Barry. It wasn’t really physical contact though, that sounds bad, it was like, three seconds, getting her down.
And you’re sure about that?
Yeah, I’m sure about that, Barry said. Totally sure.
We’re asking questions because a child is missing, the man said.
So after you touched her underwear, the woman said, what happened then? When she was down on the ground? What happened, Barry?
I, and he didn’t want to say it, I gave her some money.
What did you do?
I gave her some money.
A child you didn’t know? Why would you give a child you didn’t know money?
Because she was upset! Because she was by herself and her friends had left her and she was upset and crying. 50p to buy an ice cream or a can of Coke and then that was it, she went off and I didn’t see her again and that is all I can tell you.
The woman sat back on her seat. Fact remains though, Barry, she said, fact remains that you seem to be the last person to have seen this girl. Look at her photo again, Barry. Look at Megan Nichols’ picture and let’s start all over again.
Barry’s dad spoke up then. He’s told you, he said. He’s told you what happened. Can I just check, is Barry under arrest or what is the situation here?
We’re just asking him a few questions. He’s come along voluntarily. To answer a few questions.
Her gaze was steady. So, she said, thank you very much.
We’re meant to have a solicitor. We’re meant to have someone else here, his dad said. Look at the state of him.
He hadn’t realised that he had been working his skin, that his neck was up in weals. The crooks of his arms were on the point of bleeding.
What are you doing that for? the man said. Why’s he doing that?
Stop doing that, the woman said.
She said they would take a break. Barry and his dad were shown through to a waiting room off where the main desk was. There was a man in a corner with the dregs of a black eye looking at his hands, one and then the other.
This is some to-do, his dad said. Some to-do indeed. I don’t know solicitors. I’ve no dealings with solicitors. The only solicitor is the one we had to go to when your granny died and we were selling the house. It was a man in Carrick. He wouldn’t know what to do here. He’s all to do with selling houses. Selling houses and wills.
Barry wondered if he’d go to jail. It didn’t matter if they hadn’t done anything, sometimes people still ended up in jail.
Another policeman came through with a blue tub. Maybe you want to try putting that on, he said. She sent it to you. Our boss.
Should I put this on? Barry said.
If you think it’ll do any good, his dad said. Stop that scrabbing.
There was thick silver paper on top of it and underneath gluey cream.
The perfume of it seemed to be everywhere in the waiting room. Did the guy with the black eye look over because he could smell it?
Barry felt he should put it on. The woman would maybe be angry if she came back and he hadn’t put it on. That sort of stuff was pointless though. It was for women’s faces. It wasn’t medical. It clung to his fingers and he knew it would do no good, but he put it on one arm and then the other.
You won’t be going to that park again, his dad said. There’s always bad sorts around that park. Around all parks. What’s keeping your woman? They’ll be bringing us a solicitor now, no doubt. You’ll have done nothing wrong, son, I know that. I know that. The solicitor will get it all sorted out. He looked around. Should I speak to somebody about the solicitor?
I don’t know.
You hadn’t even ever seen the wee girl before, sure you hadn’t? No? Well, there you go.
No.
Her parents’ll be beside themselves, he said. Bad people about.
There was the end of that film where a young fella in jail slits his wrists lying in his bed and you see the blood come seeping through the sheet.
The woman reappeared. She was looking different. Could she see he’d put on the cream? Was she happy because he’d used the cream?
We’re letting you go, Barry, she said. There’s a sighting of Megan Nichols just shortly after she left the park.
Barry handed her the tub of cream.
But that’s not to say we won’t need to speak to you again.
You understand that?
Barry had nothing to do with anything, his dad said.
His ma rushed down the stairs when they came int
o the house. His dad put his hand up and shook his head.
But what’s happening? Don’t go upstairs yet, Barry, his ma said. I’m just straightening out your room. Nearly finished.
The police had been round. They had gone to Barry’s room to remove some stuff. Although what were they going to find, his ma said, other than dirty socks and pants? Isn’t that right, Barry? You’ve not done anything wrong, have you? There was a police van outside. Mortifying, his ma said, them carrying stuff out. Never anybody on this road, but suddenly there’s a whole bunch, all gawping.
The next day was a Saturday, but there was still no sign of Megan Nichols, nor on the Sunday either. She moved up the order of the headlines on the news. Megan Nichols’ mother was on the screen, her two dark-eyed boys beside her. People in the neighbourhood arranged searches, posted flyers through doors. But no one came to Barry’s house. When his dad went for the paper on Sunday morning, all talk stopped when he went into the shop. Barry knew what they would be saying. You see the bags came out of the house? Heard the polis held him for hours. No smoke without fire. Right odd-looking bloke, that fella, you’ll have seen him about. Big guy with the skin. Don’t judge a book by its cover, yeah I know, but even so. You heard about them taking anybody else in? No. No smoke without fire.
They were eating their dinner that night when the radio said that Megan Nichols was still missing. Poor wee pet, his ma said. Barry’s dad got up. He said he thought he heard something out the front. What he saw was an egg running down the window. And then Barry and his ma were there too, watching one egg and then another. This was followed by showers of what sounded like gravel. Handful after handful.
Should I call the police? his mum asked.
No, said his dad. Don’t do that.
On the Monday morning Megan Nichols was discovered. She was found by the caretaker opening up the primary school for the couple of teachers who liked to come in at the start of the summer to tidy up their rooms. Megan had spent the weekend eating old packets of biscuits left by teachers in the cupboard in the staffroom. There was a whole box of crisps too, from the end-of-year disco. Megan said she played with the school tortoise and messed about with the paints. She’d gone in to the school because she thought she’d seen Mrs Foster’s car and she wanted to say have a nice summer to Mrs Foster who’d been absent on the last day. But she couldn’t find Mrs Foster and then the place got locked up. Why didn’t you use the phone in the staff room to ring for help? the woman on the telly asked her when she was briefly interviewed. She paused. I was liking the peace and quiet, she said. For a while that was a joke with people. If you wanted to take yourself off for some peace and quiet, you were doing a Megan Nichols.
Barry’s mum was out that morning, brisk and efficient, dealing with the eggs like it was nothing other than a spring clean. There was paint on the front door, pale green, the colour somebody might have used for a bathroom. His da had to go to the DIY place to get the remover for it. It was decided that Barry would go to stay on the other side of town with an old uncle of his dad’s. It was only ever presented as a temporary arrangement because sure didn’t everyone know that Barry had done nothing wrong anyway? The uncle ate pies that came in tins and listened to the cricket on the radio. Barry lasted a year in the old uncle’s place until he moved out, first into a damp old house with some others and then, when he got the job in this place, into the flat. And now he meets up with his parents in the town every few weeks or so, somewhere that does a business lunch or an early-bird meal because that’s what they like. They’ve started getting vouchers that they print off the internet, complicated arrangements involving arriving and leaving restaurants at certain times. They’ve been to his flat, but they’d rather meet in the town. He goes back home for Christmas and that’s alright because with the lights and the decorations and the empty streets on Christmas morning it feels like a different place. He always leaves in the afternoon. Can’t hang about too long. Always working Boxing Day. Just the way the rota always seems to work out. His dad gives him a lift.
Phil comes through from the front of the shop. Barry, he says. Barry, you wouldn’t come out here, would you? Only going to take a minute.
Barry puts down the blade and folds up the packing slips that he’s laid out on the floor. They’ll be coming again soon, the two of them, into the town for a meal. They’ll ask about work. They’ll ask about the flat. He’ll say everything’s alright, because it isn’t that bad.
Glitch in the system, Phil says.
And where’s James our manager? asks Barry.
Don’t know, says Phil. Nipped out a couple of minutes ago. Said something about wanting to buy a shirt. Needs a white shirt. Got an interview for somewhere else this afternoon, I think. Some amount of managers running through this place, him, that other guy, the fat fella, Annie—
Yeah, Barry says. I know. Just the way it is.
Aye, so, two people have paid for the same item at exactly the same time, Phil explains. But there’s only the one of the items actually in stock.
What they looking for?
Paint.
House paint?
Johnstone’s Matt Emulsion in Cadillac.
You tried seeing if it’s in the other shop?
Yeah, course I have, says Phil. But nah, no luck.
Okay, says Barry. Well there you go. They’ll have to decide between them who gets it.
Well they both want it.
That’s as may be, but if there’s only the one tin.
Oh, Barry, you go and speak to them, Phil says. You’re good at all that sort of stuff.
Yeah right, Barry says.
You are, Phil says. No messing. You got the knack.
Okay, okay, Barry sighs. And he goes out to the front to deal with the customers who are both holding their receipts for Johnstone’s Matt Emulsion in Cadillac.
Acknowledgements
Without Declan Meade and Sean O’Reilly this book and these stories would not exist. My debt to them is enormous.
Huge thanks to:
Lucy Luck at C+W, and to the editors of the various publications where some of these stories have appeared: Thomas Morris, Dawn Sherratt-Bado, Linda Anderson, Ian Maleney, and Sally Rooney; Lucy Caldwell; Michael Erskine; Robert Erskine; the Reid family.
My love to Bobby, Matilda, and my husband Paul, who graciously put up with me staring into the middle distance at the kitchen table as I pondered whether ‘Would you gimme that?’ was better than ‘Gimme that would you?’ You’ve all been so patient. Love too to Niamh Reid, and to the inspirational Rosemary Erskine, who hates bad language but appreciates these stories. Most of all, love and gratitude to the fine man and father, J B A Erskine, who did not live to see the publication of Sweet Home.
About the Author
Author photograph © Khara Pringle
Wendy Erskine lives in Belfast. Her work has been published in The Stinging Fly, Stinging Fly Stories and Female Lines: New Writing by Women from Northern Ireland. She also features in Being Various: New Irish Short Stories (Faber and Faber), Winter Papers and on BBC Radio 4. Sweet Home is her first collection.
First published 2018 by The Stinging Fly Press, Dublin
First published in the UK 2019 by Picador
This electronic edition published 2019 by Picador
an imprint of Pan Macmillan
20 New Wharf Road, London N1 9RR
Associated companies throughout the world
www.panmacmillan.com
ISBN 978-1-5290-1708-3
Copyright © Wendy Erskine 2018
Cover concept and photography © Justine Anweiler
The right of Wendy Erskine to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
Earlier versions of some of these stories appeared in The Stinging Fly (issues 34, 36 & 38, Volume Two), in Stinging Fly Stories (2018), and in Female Lines:
New Writing by Women from Northern Ireland (N
ew Island Books, 2017).
Pan Macmillan does not have any control over, or any responsibility for, any author or third-party websites referred to in or on this book.
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