Seeds of Tyrone Box Set

by Debbie McGowan

  He was just about to type Goodnight, Connor when a new message popped up.

  You cruel gobshites! Stop sending me these messages. While you’re at it, leave the damn kid alone.

  Tom.

  The message was from Tom.

  He hadn’t been Michael’s first crush. The truth was, he’d been a sighing eejit over boys since he was about twelve. But Tom had been special, because he’d been the longest and also the first one Michael had ever told anyone about. One chilly day, after picking cabbages, he’d pulled Seamus Williams aside and admitted his feelings…

  “He’s got lovely green eyes,” Seamus observed.

  “Yeah,” Michael agreed, properly smiling. “And big, chunky thighs.”

  Seamus grinned. “He has too.”

  …And it was Seamus he’d turned to later, when his stepdad kicked him out of the house for having those feelings.

  With trembling fingers, Michael reached out to his keyboard and typed his response.

  Thanks, Tom.

  A notice alerted him that Tom had left the group chat and immediately the others were all over Michael.

  He closed down the group message window and ignored the new one that immediately popped up. Instead, he clicked on the last message he’d sent to Harrison, months ago, no indication he’d read it. Michael clicked in the text box and typed:

  Are you all right, Harrison? I kind of need you, mate. Loads to tell you. Don’t know what’s happened, but I’m a bit worried - hope you’re OK.

  Shutting down Facebook, Michael leaned back in his chair. What had he been doing before? He couldn’t remember. He should go down and see if the living room had cleared out. His favourite crime series was coming on soon, and he thought it might be the Christmas special.

  It was something to keep his mind off the lads’ cruelty and his worries about his friend. But would it keep him from thinking about Tom coming to his aid?

  Chapter Two:

  Sprouting Horns

  Tom hated driving the work minibus, but not as much as he hated driving his white Astra up the muddy lane to O’Grady’s portacabin office to drop off the lads’ timesheets, especially when he’d spent all of Sunday washing and waxing it. It had cost him the equivalent of a year’s wages, which he’d saved up during the past three years. If his dad hadn’t been made redundant, he’d have done it in two, but his mum needed every spare penny, or they’d have lost the house already.

  He knew he was being unnecessarily materialistic. He could have still been getting on the work minibus with the rest of the lads and done without the Astra, but he’d wanted one since he’d left school…eight years ago. God, sometimes he felt so old. It wasn’t so bad when Seamus was their supervisor, because he was that bit older again. Before Seamus, there was Mark, who was in his forties, and before him Alan, who must have been well into his fifties. He was a right Jack the lad, turning up drunk and late every morning, and the lads—Tom included—had quickly learned to use that to their advantage, even though they had to hit their quota or the farmer didn’t get his money. And if the farmer didn’t get his money, he couldn’t pay O’Grady, and if he couldn’t pay O’Grady, the lads didn’t get paid either.

  It was Seamus who had suggested putting on minibuses to pick up and drop the lads off before and after work, and it was a genius idea. O’Grady’s Farm Agency wasn’t that big—just three crews picking crops as dictated by the season—cabbages, salad stuff, onions, sprouts, mushrooms… They hated the mushrooms. It was the only work they had through January and February, and the sheds were cold, damp and smelly. They all swore blind it was the reason they were sick so much at that time of year, nothing to do with it being cold and dark enough outside, never mind in a big old shed with next to no light.

  There wasn’t enough space to park the minibus outside the office, and Tom had to abandon it on the lane, but he wouldn’t be there long. This week’s sprouts were next week’s Christmas dinner, and they were all on overtime, trying to fit three weeks’ work into two. If they could keep up the same rate as last week, they’d make it with time to spare, so long as he didn’t dawdle.

  Tom jogged over to the office—which was a sizeable portacabin—and stepped into the Calor-gas fumed wave of heat. “Morning, Shannon,” he greeted Mr. O’Grady’s youngest assistant—an attractive girl a couple of years younger than he was—and handed over the wad of A4 timesheets.

  “Morning, Tom,” she said with a smile. She took the sheets from him and glanced over them. “Yours are always so organised. Thank you. It saves me a lot of messing around.”

  “Welcome. I’m only doing my job.”

  The door to O’Grady’s office opened and the man himself peered out. “Ah, I thought it was you. Everything all right?”

  “Yeah. We’re still OK for the extra hours this week?”

  “Aye. You’ll have to be.”

  “Thought I’d better check before I give the lads their orders.”

  “Fair enough.” Mr. O’Grady went back inside his office and closed the door again.

  “Best get on meself,” Tom said, moving towards the door.

  “Before you go, Tom,” Shannon called after him. He stopped and turned back. She was blushing and suddenly nothing like her usual flirtatious self. “Do you, er, fancy going out later in the week?”

  Tom sighed and shook his head. “I’d love to, but it’s gone seven by the time I get home, and I’m out again at six in the morning.”

  Shannon’s slim shoulders slumped a little, and she gave Tom a small smile. “I understand.”

  “Sorry.” And he was. He liked Shannon. But he had other things to do—things he’d rather not be doing. “See you later.”

  This time, he left for real, out to the minibus and away, bumping through the muddy puddles, back to the main road and onwards to Ryan’s farm for another day of sprout picking. And no ordinary sprouts, mind you. Aside from the fact that Ryan’s was an organic farm, the sprouts this year were enormous—sometimes as much as twice their normal size—because of the mild weather. Allegedly. Once he was into the swing of the day, Tom didn’t really notice what the weather was doing, unless it was blowing a gale. Then he’d end up with earache so stubborn it took lying on a hot water bottle and risking a scalded cheek to shift it.

  After what he’d seen on Facebook over the weekend, however, sprouts—organic, mutated or otherwise—were the least of his worries. Truth be told, he was more disappointed than angry, because to Connor and his mates it was just a bit of fun. They’d have given no thought to how Michael felt getting messages like that. Hopefully, taking Connor to one side and giving him a quiet talking to would nip it in the bud.

  When Tom reached Ryan’s Farm, the lads were already hard at it—nothing like the prospect of picking sprouts by torchlight to get them moving. He locked up the minibus and squelched his way along the footpath, scanning the field and estimating how many more days it would take. He reached the patch the lads were working.

  “All right?” he greeted them. “I was just thinking…” He assumed him position among the rest of the crew, took out his knife, and bent down to start work. “If we keep our pace, we should be done by Thursday. You know what that means.” He grinned and looked up, not expecting to be met with spiteful sideways glances and stony glares. He frowned and straightened up. “What’s wrong? Something happened?”

  The lads turned away and continued working in silence—all except one: Connor. He stood, feet astride the row of sprout stalks, casually flicking the sprouts from the stalk in his hand and sending them shooting off in all directions.

  Tom raised an eyebrow. “A word, please,” he said and walked back the way he had just come. He stopped at the boundary, expecting Connor to be right behind him and instead watched him stroll like he had all the time in the world. He chucked the bare sprout stalk across the field and finally arrived at Tom’s location. Tom’s heart sank. He didn’t want any trouble, but it looked like he’d got it whether he wanted it or not.
<
br />   “Right, Connor, let’s keep this short and simple. You were way out of line. You know that?”

  “I’m sorry, Tom. I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.” Connor turned and spat, the saliva hissing past his teeth and hitting the ground several feet away. He looked back at Tom, the whisper of a smirk on his lips. “What are you talking about?”

  “Facebook? It’s called cyber-bullying, and it’s a criminal offence.”

  “Cyber…what?” Connor shrugged. No attempt to hide his smirk now.

  Tom was getting angry, but it wouldn’t do to show it. He calmly forged on. “I don’t know what made you think I’d want to be a part of it, but I’m glad you did, or I wouldn’t have known what you were up to. I’ll assume you didn’t think it through, but it stops now. Do you understand?”

  “Oh, aye. Perfectly. Are you done with me?”

  Tom observed Connor a moment longer. God, he wanted to smack that supercilious expression right off his face. “Yes. I’m done with you,” he said. He watched Connor saunter back and join the rest of the lads, saw words pass between them. He’d either killed it or thrown fuel on the fire. Only time would tell.

  <<<>>>

  They’d worked long past dusk by the light of the tractor’s headlamps, but it was too cold, and in any case they’d hit the maximum number of hours they were allowed to work in a day. That was one of the good things about working for O’Grady. He might only pay the minimum wage, but he was a stickler for following the European directives, and he insisted all his employees join a union. There again, it was dangerous work, so he was likely only covering his own back, but it still had a positive knock-on effect.

  It was almost half past seven when Tom got home, so exhausted he could have gladly fallen into bed in his boots. He didn’t. He took them off in the hallway and stumbled through the living room with a quick ‘hi’ to his mum and dad on his way to the kitchen, and a ‘bye’ on the way back with his tea. He took it upstairs and ate it while sitting on the toilet—lid down—waiting for the bath to fill. Once the water was deep enough, he tipped a capful of his mum’s shea butter bubble bath into it and swooshed it around. If he could have been bothered, he’d have gone and got a candle from his room, but it probably wouldn’t be wise. Any longer than ten minutes in the water and he’d be asleep.

  “…still in the bath?”

  “Ah, shite.” He’d been right, then. “Yeah,” he confirmed.

  “Can you hurry up? I’m bursting here.”

  “Sorry, Mum. I’ll be out now.”

  Tom heaved himself out of the water, pulled the plug and wrapped a towel around his waist, offering his mum a sleepy smile as they exchanged places.

  “Don’t you be falling asleep in the bath,” she ticked him off. He knew the rest—you’ll drown yourself one of these days. Somehow he thought it unlikely—he’d have to roll over for starters, and he was too broad to comfortably do that without waking up—but he’d rather not lose the precious little leisure time he had this week.

  On the plus side, one of his parents—Dad, at a guess—had vacuumed his room and there was a pile of folded laundry on the bed, including his favourite sweatpants. Tom quickly dried off, pulled on the sweatpants and a t-shirt, and flopped down on top of the covers. He sighed and got up again.

  “Phone.” It was in his work pants, which he’d left in the bathroom. Back he went. Ah. “Mum?”

  “What?” she called from downstairs.

  “Where have you put my work pants?”

  “Washing machine. I’m just doing a load now.”

  Oh, hell. Tom flew from the bathroom, yelling, “Stop the machine!” He tore down the stairs, through the living room, stumbling to a halt in the kitchen, staring at his mum in horror, but she was laughing.

  “I haven’t turned it on yet, Thomas.”

  “Thank God.” He flung the door open and tugged all of the dirty laundry onto the floor.

  “Let me guess. Phone?”

  “Aye. Sorry.”

  She patted his shoulder. “I should’ve checked.”

  Tom found his phone and set it on the counter to put the washing back in the machine.

  “Leave that, love,” his mum suggested. Tom stood up again and hugged her.

  “Thanks, Mum. See you in the morning.”

  “Night, love.”

  “Night,” he said, and then again to his dad as he passed him by, receiving the same in response.

  Back in his room a second time, Tom lay on the bed with his knees up, revelling in relief as the ache in his back and shoulders eased. It had been a long day, made tougher by the lack of conversation. The lads hadn’t spoken to him at all, not even in the pub at dinner time. Connor would be licking his wounds for a while yet. Still, he couldn’t fault their work—it looked like they’d be getting Friday off for sure, and that was them for Christmas.

  Tom loaded Facebook and scrolled through the newsfeed…

  Kelly and Ian are pleased to announce the arrival of baby Gemma…

  Great day at the American theme park with the kids…

  Can NOT wait for the Christmas holiday to start.

  “Oh, aye. He’s a teacher, isn’t he?” Tom thought aloud with a chuckle, but nearly all the posts from his old school friends were about their kids. There again, they were all in their mid-twenties—time to have fallen in love, married, started a family. He wouldn’t mind that at all, when the right girl came along, although it hadn’t occurred to him before now that it was something he wanted.

  It must happen to everyone eventually. Growing up. But it was subtle—not the sudden onset of crazy he’d seen his sister hit in her early teens. Being four years older than Katie afforded him two insights. One: his sister should never be given a weapon. Two: he’d been exactly the same when he’d hit thirteen. But at some point in the past couple of years, he’d shaken off the yobbishness that had clung to him like a stinking fart since he left school, and he was thinking about the future, maybe also regretting the past a little, too.

  Connor and his mates—they were still stuck with the stinking farts. Granted, theirs stank worse than his ever did, but they’d grow out of it. Hopefully. Tomorrow was another day.

  See? That’s more like it—a status update from Michael McFerran to say he was at Asda supermarket, ‘looking for Cap’n Christmas Crunch’. A superhero toy? Whatever, Connor had liked Michael’s status, so something Tom said this morning must have stuck. He was glad about that—for all of five seconds, when he was struck by a sickening thought.

  In an instant, Tom’s fatigue disappeared, courtesy of the rush of adrenaline. Shoving his bare feet into his trainers, he grabbed his hoodie and car keys and ran downstairs.

  “Just popping to Asda, Mum. Do we need anything?”

  “No. I don’t think so.”

  “OK. Call me if you think of anything.” Tom shut the door and jogged to the car.

  It was only a five-minute drive; time enough to reason it through. He hoped desperately he was wrong, yet he couldn’t shake the fear that he was right, and as he turned into the car park, his suspicions were confirmed. Unless it was normal for Connor and his posse to loiter outside a supermarket of a Monday evening. Somehow he doubted it. They hadn’t seen him arrive, and he took the first turnoff, drove to the far end of the car park, parked up, and walked back.

  “All right, lads? Fancy seeing you here.” He continued straight past them, into the store, glancing back only once he’d dodged around a corner out of sight. They were looking to see where he’d gone, but he didn’t want them to know he was watching. He needed to see what they were up to, gather the evidence, and then…what? Take it to the boss, he supposed. Except Michael didn’t work for O’Grady’s anymore. He worked for Seamus Williams. Although O’Grady knew Connor—Tom had a feeling they were related in some way, seeing as Connor was a slacker yet his job seemed safe as houses. Maybe that was the way to play it—get O’Grady to have a word with Connor. But then, they might just be loitering outside a s
upermarket of a Monday evening.

  Tom had a perfect vantage point, and he stayed where he was, picking up bunches of bananas to cover his odd behaviour whenever a shop assistant passed by and gave him a funny look. He was going to have to buy something soon, or he’d end up getting arrested for shoplifting. The next time an assistant came his way, Tom chose a fairly green-looking bunch of tiny bananas and slowly walked down to the checkouts. His timing was, by chance, perfect. Michael had just paid for a multipack of crisps and was on his way out of the store. Tom quickly put the bananas on the belt of the nearest checkout and readied his money in his hand.

  “There’s no barcode on these,” the girl on the till said, pushing the buzzer to call for assistance.

  “Oh, never mind, then,” Tom said, all set to walk away without the bananas.

  “It won’t take a minute,” the girl assured him.

  I don’t have a minute. Tom smiled and glanced furtively out of the automatic doors. The reflection of the bright in-store lighting against the dark outside made it hard to tell if Connor and the others were still there. Someone came to deal with the bananas and went off to find the barcode. Tom’s agitation grew. He needed to get out of there, right now.

  Finally, the other staff member returned with a second pack of bananas. Tom handed over his money, picked up the bananas he did not want, and marched out of the store. Michael was nowhere in sight, but Connor and his mates were still there. Tom stopped dead in front of Connor, who held out the packet in his hand, and said with an evil grin, “All right, Tom? Want a crisp?”

  Chapter Three:

  The Snoop and the Crisps

  Michael’s heart thudded as he quietly pushed open the door to Dee’s room. She and Chancey had gone off Christmas shopping, and Seamus was at Marie’s. He needn’t creep—no one was at home and no one would find him. If one of them were to return unexpectedly, well, then Michael could bolt out of the room before they even put a foot on the stairs. But he crept, like the snoop he was.