‘Well, Emmet McCann’s not the type to take you for a walk and buy you a Coke. So watch yourself.’
The edges of the city are bleeding into rough fields. I hadn’t realised we’d come so far until I see the parked hulks of the lorries at the haulage yard. I don’t want to go round the next corner. Not in the dark. My feet judder to a halt as if they get the message before my brain, and Cian nearly bangs into me.
‘Let’s head back,’ I say.
‘Aww. I want to go and check those lorries out,’ he says, like a toddler.
‘Wise up. It’s alarmed. And there’s an Alsatian.’
‘How d’you know?’
I sigh. This kid has the memory of a goldfish. Must be all that stuff he sniffs and smokes and drinks.
‘Told you. I cycle past here every day. And just up there – past that yard – that’s where I found Folly. See that shape – sort of rounded? That’s the roof of the barn. The house is behind it.’ I shiver and Cian notices.
‘What?’
‘Just … creepy. The thought of that horse dying in there. We even thought there was a dead body in the house. A person.’ His eyes widen, loving that. ‘Only there wasn’t.’
‘So is it haunted?’
‘Could be. Come on. It’s dark anyway. I have to get up tomorrow even if you don’t.’
‘I soon will. School.’ He twists his face. ‘St Ignatius’s. That where you went?’
‘Yeah. It’s full of fascists. Mr Dermott’s nice. But you only get him if you’re in the thick class.’
‘I will be.’
There’s nothing much to say to that. For a while we walk down the hill. Cian stops every so often and looks back at the death barn. I don’t look back. He takes out a packet of fags and offers it to me. ‘Want one?’
I shake my head. ‘I haven’t smoked since I was your age.’
‘Granda.’
The way back seems far shorter. As we turn off the main road into the estate Cian’s steps slow to a drag. I remember all the times I didn’t want to go home when I was his age. All the fellas I didn’t want to go home to. And how it was worse, sometimes, after they’d pissed off leaving Mum crying and blaming me.
‘Cian,’ I say at the top of our street. I don’t know if he’s checked to see if the Honda Civic’s parked outside his house, but I have and it isn’t. ‘You should tell somebody.’
‘What?’
‘If anybody’s hurting you.’ I can’t help looking at his arms. He shrugs them back inside his sleeves. ‘Your mum?’
He shakes his head.
‘If that Darren –’
His voice suddenly goes hard. ‘I told you, no. Wise up.’ He swaggers across the street. He doesn’t thank me for the Coke or the walk. I don’t thank him for the company. I suppose for about a minute I hope he’s OK and that his mum doesn’t take it out on him, but no more than that.
When I sneak in as quietly as I can through the back door, I hear the rise and fall of voices from the living room and my chest tightens in case it’s Mairéad, but then I recognise Stacey’s whinge, and catch the words, wee bastard … spoils everything … Darren … best I ever had … should have known …
I sneak up to bed. Sometime in the early hours I hear shouting in the street but I bury my head under the pillow. It’s ages before I sleep, though. I can’t help replaying that conversation about running and hiding in my head. And Mairéad: You can’t keep letting on it’s not happening.
V. Losing
1.
‘There!’ Without asking, Seaneen takes my hand and places it on her belly. The one part of her I haven’t touched for weeks. The one part of her I’ve tried not even to look at, though it’s getting harder and harder to miss. ‘Ouch,’ I say. ‘That’s my sore hand.’
Seaneen gives me a funny look. ‘You’re always bruised these days. Look at your arm! Is that Folly?’
I shrug. ‘Hit it on the gate,’ I lie, but Seaneen’s not stupid. Yesterday when I tried to lunge Folly she swung her arse round and kicked me. I thought my arm was broken but when the numbness wore off it was just bruised.
‘Declan, that horse is going to kill you.’
‘Don’t be daft.’
‘Can you not just leave her in the field, eating the grass? Why do you have to train her?’
‘It’s not just training. It’s … I have to get her to trust me.’
Seaneen starts to say something but seems to change her mind. Instead she picks up my other hand and puts it on her bump. Something jabs me. I yank my hand away. ‘Jesus.’
‘You’re not meant to say Jesus.’ For a moment I think she’s telling me off about cursing in front of our unborn baby, but then she gives a wee smile as if to tell me she’s not giving off – only it’s an uncertain smile and I’m not used to Seaneen being uncertain. I think she’s hurt that I pulled my hand away so quick.
‘Sorry. Don’t want to hurt you – it.’
Seaneen stops smiling. ‘Feeling your baby kick,’ she says sulkily. ‘You’re meant to be overwhelmed with emotion.’
‘I am.’ That’s the truth anyway. Only I don’t think it’s the right emotion.
We’re in my house, sprawling on the sofa. We have it all to ourselves because Mum’s over at Stacey’s. Darren seems to have pissed off right enough, and Mum keeps telling me Stacey has ‘self-esteem issues’ and she’s just glad to ‘be there for her’ and other expressions that would make you puke.
‘And you’re coming to the scan next week?’
‘I said I would. Tuesday.’ I’ve already told Cam I had to take my mum to an appointment. She said she’d see to Folly for me. Next Tuesday will be the end of August. The summer will be over and I still haven’t ridden Folly.
Seaneen gives a wriggle. ‘This is the one where they can tell you the sex.’
I sit up. ‘No!’ The word flies out of my mouth before I’ve even thought it.
Seaneen looks disappointed. ‘Ah, d’you want it to be a surprise? That’s dead sweet. Only I want to know. Bronagh says she wouldn’t want to know either. But I think she’s just saying that because I do. And she’s so jealous. She wants one. She says she doesn’t but I know rightly.’ She says it like a baby’s a tattoo or something. ‘Some people think it’s bad luck to know. Do you?’
I shake my head. What worse luck can there be than the baby existing in the first place? ‘It’s not that, I just … I dunno, Seaneen.’ I scratch the slow-healing rope burn on my hand.
‘Would you rather keep it as a surprise?’
I don’t want to know what sex it is because it’s just going to make it more real. I know it’s real now. I’m not in denial about it. It’s not just cells and stuff making Seaneen sick any more; it’s a being, there inside her, pushing its tiny feet against the drum of her belly, making her look pregnant and weird. But knowing it’s a boy or a girl, that’ll just do my head in. It won’t be it any more. She’ll start going on about names. Mum’ll stop knitting yellow and white and start on to pink. Or blue.
‘Do you care what it is?’
I shake my head
‘Neither do I. Long as it’s OK. Does anything run in your family? The twins have eczema but I never had anything like that.’
I shake my head. ‘Dunno. Don’t think so.’ Alcoholism, but I don’t say that.
‘I hope it doesn’t have curly hair like me. I hope it has lovely dark eyes like you. Declan?’
‘What?’
‘Do you not worry about it being OK? I mean, turning out OK? Like you keep saying about Folly?’
‘Um, yeah, course.’ I try to sound interested.
‘I wouldn’t want it to be like half the wee hoods round here. I think a girl would be easier. What do you think?’
I don’t know what I think. But I stay. And I listen. Well, half-listen.
* * *
I set my coffee cup down on Cam’s kitchen table. ‘No, course you should go,’ I say. ‘I can come in and see to everything here.’
‘But
it’s Tuesday – your mum’s appointment?’
‘My mum’s …? Oh. It doesn’t matter. She won’t mind.’ I stare at the leaflet again. ‘It looks brilliant. I wish …’ Next year, I tell myself, next year Folly and I will go to a Marsha Graham masterclass.
‘I just forgot the vet was coming. I could put him off but I need to get those passports sent off for the Welshies and they all need their tetanus boosters. It’s a nuisance that Jim’s away.’
‘No, it’s fine. Mum’ll understand. I suppose Lara’s going too?’ I keep my voice neutral. I hate the idea of Lara getting the benefit of Marsha Graham’s teaching, but at least she won’t be at the yard annoying me. With the place quiet I might even get the chance to make some proper progress with Folly instead of faffing about, which is all I seem to have been doing. Or making excuses not to work her so people can’t see how bad she is.
‘Look,’ Cam says, putting the leaflet on top of a pile of show schedules, Farm Weeks and feed receipts, ‘if you really can come in, you can get George to do Folly’s markings as well. You need to get her passport sorted out.’
Another expense. ‘I can’t aff –’
‘I’ll pay. Call it a thank you for messing you about. But are you sure your mum will be all right without you?’
‘Totally positive.’ I cross my fingers.
* * *
Cycling into the estate I still haven’t made up my mind how to get out of the scan. Pretend to be sick? But what if Seaneen sees me cycling to work? Pretend there’s some sort of big crisis at the yard?
No. I can’t keep hiding stuff. I’ll tell her the truth. Be adult about it. I go straight round to hers, without changing out of my horsey stuff, just to get it over with.
Seaneen’s green eyes darken and narrow. ‘OK,’ she says. We’re in her hall. Kids’ TV blares from the living room. Granzilla’s making chips in the kitchen. I can hear and smell them but I have a feeling I’m not going to be invited to stay.
‘OK,’ Seaneen says again. ‘Let me get this right. You won’t come to the scan –’
‘Can’t. I can’t come –’
‘Because the vet is coming to do some routine thing? Fill in some forms? Something he could do any time?’
Oh God, so much for telling the truth.
‘It’s not that simple. George is … you have to book him weeks in advance – he’s the best … And the Welsh ponies need their tetanus injections.’
‘The scan was booked weeks in advance. And why does it have to be you?’
‘Cam’s at a showjumping thing. Jim’s away. There’s nobody else. I’ll make it up to you, Seaneen. And sure your mum’ll go, won’t she? She’s better at all that kind of …’
She turns and walks off down the hall. I don’t know if I’m meant to follow her or what. It’d be easier just to leave. Just at the bottom of the stairs she stops and flings over her shoulder, ‘You coming?’
I don’t think I have any choice. It reminds me too much of the night she told me she was pregnant. In her bedroom I try again. ‘Seaneen, I’m sorry, but you know I’m no good at that kind of thing – hospitals and that. I felt stupid last time. It’s not … not really me.’
She gives a bark of laughter. ‘Oh, sorry! Not really you. You think this is really me? You think I want to be fat and tired and ugly and have to give birth?’
‘No, course not. I know it’s harder on you.’ Too late I realise I should have said she wasn’t ugly.
She grabs my arms and makes me look at her. ‘Declan, if I’d known how immature you were going to be about this baby, I’d have –’
‘What?’ The pain of her fingers digging into my bruises makes me say what I’ve never said. ‘Had an abortion? Pity you hadn’t.’
She pulls away from me and her hand goes to its usual protective position across her bump. ‘How can you even say that? Kill our baby?’ She squeezes her eyes shut for a moment as if it hurts her even to say the words. She gives me a cold hard look. ‘I mean I’d have … I’d have finished with you. And never let on it was yours.’
‘I wish you had.’ Oh God, where did this all come from? These words must have been very near the surface to jump out like this.
‘You see? You don’t want it!’
‘Of course I don’t bloody want it!’ I shout. ‘But it’s not a matter of wanting, is it? It exists. We have to get on with it.’
‘No, I have to get on with it. You can piss off if you want to.’ Her green eyes shine with tears. ‘I’m the one that has to go through with it. And I’m the one who’ll be left with it when you bugger off.’
‘I haven’t bloody buggered off, though, have I?’ I rub my hands over my face as if I can push away the red mist that’s making me want to tell her how much I nearly did. How much I still wish I could. How what’s keeping me here has more to with a frightened, frightening horse than with whatever’s inside Seaneen’s belly. ‘Look, Seaneen, it’s one scan I can’t come to. That’s all.’
‘It’s not all. Mum and Dad are right. You’re pretending this baby isn’t happening.’
‘That’s bollocks, Seaneen.’
‘It’s not!’ The tears are running down her cheeks now and she doesn’t try to rub them away. ‘You won’t talk about what we’re going to do, where we’re going to live, anything.’ She bends over her folded arms like she’s in pain. ‘I hope this poor baby doesn’t turn out like you, you selfish bastard.’
I yank her arms away and make her look at me. ‘Don’t you dare say I’m selfish. You have no idea what I gave up for you and this baby.’ I don’t care if Granzilla can hear. I don’t care if Gary comes up the stairs and beats the shit out of me. I hope he does.
‘Oh yeah? What?’ She hugs herself. ‘What have you ever given up for anybody?’
‘I was meant to go to Germany!’ I spit it out. ‘I had this job lined up. A brilliant one. I should be there now, only I didn’t go because of you and the fucking baby. So don’t tell me I’m selfish.’
Her eyes widen. I watch her face taking this in, working out what it means, and then I turn and bash out of the room and out of the house with her screeching after me, ‘So piss off to Germany then and don’t come back!’
2.
It’s only six a.m. and not even properly light but I can’t stay in bed any longer with Seaneen’s words bashing round my brain. I’m at work so early that the curtains are still pulled across Cam’s bedroom window. I stuff my jacket and phone – which I haven’t switched on since last night – in a corner of the tack room and grab some headcollars. By the time Cam comes out, I have everything in that needs to be in – the Welshies for their passports, Spirit and Willow. I don’t like helping Lara but Cam’s pointed out to me more than once that it’s my job to work with all the horses: I don’t get to pick and choose. Just like everything else in my life.
I bring Folly in last, and she noses at my hand for a treat. Her teeth pull the skin on my wrist and I smack her nose. She flinches away and I feel guilty. If I hadn’t started giving her treats she wouldn’t have gone looking for them, but I had to, because she’s getting harder to catch.
She sulks in her stable but cheers up when I throw an armful of haylage over the door.
‘Gosh, Declan, you’ve everything done? What time were you here at?’ Cam asks.
‘Uh – sevenish, I suppose.’
‘You’re a star,’ she says with a yawn. She goes to fetch a grooming kit and looks in over Folly’s half-door on the way past. Folly lunges at her, ears back, teeth bared.
‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘She hardly ever does that now.’
‘She’s not as settled as she was, is she?’ Cam says. ‘Maybe she’s in season or something.’ I pretend not to hear, and follow Cam into Spirit’s stable. I make a start on grooming his silvery mane.
‘Declan!’ Cam says. ‘That’s a dandy brush. Do you want to break all the hairs?’
‘Sorry.’ I exchange the harsh dandy brush for a soft body brush.
‘Don’t mix anything
up when George comes.’ Cam gives me a funny look like she doesn’t really trust me on my own.
‘Course I won’t.’
‘And can you poo-pick the bottom field?’
I groan. ‘Yes.’
Poo-picking’s the last thing I want to do today. I don’t mind the work so much, but it’s so mindless it leaves you far too much time to think. What I want today is something physical and difficult, something that will use up all my energy and all my thoughts.
George’s big Range Rover swings into the yard about lunchtime. Cam and I have filled in the passport forms in advance with the names and details. All I have to do is bring the ponies out one by one and hold them while George checks out all their markings and fills them in on a chart. They’re all perfectly mannered and patient, even when George sticks needles into their necks to microchip them, standing in the hot yard like textbook ponies, bright eyes peeking from under their bushy forelocks.
‘Very civil for youngsters,’ George says.
‘They’ve had plenty of handling.’
‘Makes all the difference,’ he says, scrawling his signature across the bottom of the form. ‘A good grounding. Now – that it?’
‘One more if you’ve time. My own mare.’ I still get a thrill out of saying this.
George looks at his watch.
‘Won’t take long.’ I pull open the bolt on Folly’s door and the thrill of saying my own mare dims a bit. Unlike the Welsh ponies, she’s been pacing up and down ever since she finished her haylage. Teeth marks on the top of her door show that she’s been biting it again. A light film of sweat darkens her neck and behind her front legs. She blinks in the sunlight, then rolls her eyes at George, and pulls back in alarm when he lifts up her forelock to see if there’s a whorl under it.
‘So,’ he says. ‘Easy, girl, stop that. Where did you get this?’
‘Long story,’ I say. ‘She had a bad start.’
George looks at the form, where I’ve already filled in her name and age and breeding – unknown. ‘Six? Riding?’
‘Um, I haven’t tried yet.’
‘Folly?’ he asks. ‘Let’s hope she doesn’t live up to her name, eh?’ He grins.
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